Sacrifice
by Tex-chan
Summary: When a mission goes bad, Aya may have to make the ultimate sacrifice to protect Omi, and the rest of Weiss learn you don't truly miss something until it's gone.
1. Default Chapter

_Note: This is a pretty dark fic. So dark (at least to me) that I had trouble finishing it. I'm rating it PG-13 for now ... but, truthfully, I'm not sure what the rating should be. So, if anyone disagrees with the rating ... please let me know. Anyhow, for the record ... you've been warned of impending darkness and lots of angst ahead ... proceed at your own risk. Thanks! tex-chan_

Aya sighed. Resting his head on the table, he pillowed his chin on his arms and stared at the kitchen sink. The apartment was almost oppressively quiet, even this room, which, if it was possible for buildings to have a soul, was where the Koneko's lay. The kitchen was the one room where they all gathered on a regular basis --- to cook meals, eat, and, sometimes, just talk about their adventures for that day. They all gathered in the basement briefing room, too, but, considering what they discussed down there, no one could ever think of that space as harboring any kind of "soul". Aya would never admit it to the others, but he enjoyed those times when everyone was together like that. They were easy and comfortable. The domestic sounds of food being prepared and the gentle, good-natured teasing and banter among Omi, Yohji, and Ken reminded him of when he had had a family … when he had had a home. When everyone was there, he was able to worry a little less about the others. They were always targets. That was part of being Weiss. The others chose to pretend otherwise, and seemed to live in blissful ignorance of their fate, but Aya found he couldn't ignore it. He was fiercely protective and jealous of those he cared for, tending to hold tightly to the things and people he felt were important, just so he wouldn't have to suffer the pain and grief he'd gone through when he had lost his parents and sister. If he could see them, he knew they were safe.

He hadn't been part of Weiss for very long --- maybe 8 or 9 months --- but, he had, much to his chagrin, already developed a certain fondness for the rest of the team. He didn't want it, had tried so hard to cut himself off from the rest of humanity, to never feel again, just so he couldn't suffer the soul-shattering grief that would happen when he lost someone else. He had known, from the very moment he'd watched Reiji Takatori brutally run his sister down with that big, black car, he'd never be able to stand up to that kind of mind-numbing, heart-wrenching pain ever again. It was the kind of thing you could only survive once. In his mind, losing someone else wasn't just a dim possibility; it was inevitable. People died --- especially people around him and for whom he cared. It was a fact of life. But, in the end, he'd been too weak-willed to deny his almost innate need for friendship and companionship. He couldn't bring himself to express it to the others, but he had, over the months he'd spent in Weiss, begun to consider the rest of his teammates as a kind of surrogate family. He thought of them as brothers --- even Ken, although their initial meeting had left a very bad taste in Aya's mouth, not to mention a couple of small scars above his right eye. Aya grimaced as the feel of Ken's fists smashing into his body came back, still vivid despite the time that had passed since the incident. The ex-jock might act like a total moron, but he could throw a hell of a punch.

Still, they had to keep their distance. They were important to him; that was the very reason why he had to remain aloof and removed from them. Even if he could have forced himself to reach out to the others, to express his feelings, Aya knew they wouldn't reciprocate. Inside, he knew he didn't deserve any friends, didn't deserve the companionship he craved. He was nothing more than a murderer, no better than the "evil beasts" Weiss hunted for Persia. Keeping them at arm's length was the only way he could protect the others from who and what he was.

Normally, the flower shop and their apartment were so full of the sounds of everyday life that he could barely put two coherent thoughts together. If he closed his eyes and concentrated, he could imagine them now --- Ken bouncing his soccer ball against the kitchen or living room wall; Omi tapping away on his computer; Yohji whining loudly about having to work the morning shift; the television, which was almost always on; the girls who crowded the shop every day screaming and giggling; and, even, his own voice carrying over all the background noise as he yelled, "If you're not buying anything, get out!" But, now, it was so still that he could only guess everyone else had gone to sleep hours ago. The kitchen's quiet, punctuated by the soft ticking of the clock on the opposite wall, folded around him like a big, thick blanket.

The peaceful quiet of the sleeping house usually comforted him, and Aya often awoke during the night or early in the morning, especially if the nightmares were particularly bad, to have some time alone before facing a new day. Projecting an aloof, callous, hostile image toward the others didn't come naturally to him, and he often had difficulty maintaining the icy façade his teammates had come to accept as his "normal" personality. As a result, Aya often sought out silent times during the night and early morning, when he would have the peace, quiet, and isolation he needed to reconstruct his cold, unfeeling mask before, once again, facing the world and those closest to him. Normally, he even enjoyed the quiet time. Building the wall back up, brick by brick, made him feel protected and safe, and it made him feel as if he was protecting the rest of them, men with whom he lived, worked, and killed --- men who had come to mean so much to him in such a short amount of time. Tonight, though, Aya was surprised to realize he would welcome an intrusion into his "alone time". Where he usually found the silence comforting, tonight it was unnerving and oppressive, and he fought back the urge to yell, just to hear something other than the loud, screaming silence and the deafening tick, tick, tick of the kitchen clock.

He glanced up at the clock, breaking his depressing train of thought, and sighed when he realized it read, "3:00 AM". Aya rubbed his hands over his face and tugged them through his hair, a gesture of irritation and frustration at realizing this would be one more in a long string of sleepless nights. The clock's ticking mocked him. He was exhausted. He wanted to sleep, but he knew better than to try. If the mission file he was currently poring over didn't haunt him, the nightmares would. Either way, it was a lose-lose proposition.

He ran his hands, once again, through tangled, already-mussed, red hair, pausing long enough to give an extra tug at his bangs, and thought that he needed to get them trimmed as he turned his attention back toward the manila folder in front of him. It contained the details of Weiss's latest mission. "Details" was too generous a description by far. And, Aya knew the lack of information within the folder was, in large part, responsible for his frustration and for more than a few of his sleepless nights.

Ten days ago, Manx had shown up at the shop, around closing time, as always, and had handed him this manila folder, which, she swore, contained all the information Kritiker had been able to gather regarding their newest mission and latest target. Aya spread the sparse contents out on the table in front of him --- glossy, 8x10 photos of dead boys. There were ten of them --- one for each victim of the serial killer Persia wanted Weiss to track and eliminate. The victims had all been killed in different ways. Two had been strangled, three had been shot in the head, three had been stabbed, one had been beaten to death, and the last one had, apparently, been buried alive. All of the victims had been found in different locations around the city. There seemed to be no connection at all among them, no rhyme or reason to their deaths. But, where the police had seen only a string of unfortunate, yet unrelated, murders, Kritiker, always on the lookout for some new malevolence gnawing at the city's underbelly, had seen a serial killer at work, because the boys had all been between the ages of fifteen and nineteen. That had been it --- all the information Kritiker had had to give their white hunters of the night.

After two days of Internet surfing, Omi had discovered each of the victims last had been seen alive at the same club --- The Crazy Geisha, which was operated by some huge British conglomerate. It was a well-known gay and bi-sexual hangout and pick-up joint. After discovering that connection, Omi had taken back to the 'net in the hopes of finding some other clue to their beast's location and identity. Even the tiniest scrap of information, even a rumor of a rumor, would have been something. It certainly would have been more than they had gotten from Persia. But, the youngest Weiss hadn't been able to find anything other than the club name, and, after giving the boy five additional days of web crawling and hacking time, Aya had been forced to admit there just wasn't anything else. If there was, Omi would have found it. He was confident of that; the boy was that good.

Reluctantly, after some strenuous urging on Manx's part, Aya had decided they would have to begin moving on the target, even though they still had no information on the killer. Finding the club connection had confirmed, in all their minds, that Kritiker had been right. It had to be a serial killer; there were just too many coincidences for the slayings to be random. After several team meetings, they had put together a rather sketchy profile of their target. Actually, "sketchy" was a generous description. "Useless" would have been more accurate. Their best guess was that the killer was a man, either a homophobe or someone who was gay and not yet out of the closet, based on the victims all being young men, all picked up in a gay hang-out, and all killed in such vicious, brutal manners. So, they were looking for a possibly gay man who frequented the most popular gay bar in the city, and, not for the first time, Aya couldn't help but think the "profile" was _**really**_ helping them on this one. In a city as big as Tokyo, it narrowed the potential targets to, probably, a quarter or more of the population. Helpful … not. Worse yet, considering the club as the only real lead they had, Aya was afraid to interview any of the employees or regular patrons. The killer could have been anyone at the club, and he was afraid of spooking the target by asking too many questions. In short, the White Hunters were going into this mission with less than zero, if such a thing was possible.

Aya sighed again and picked up the nearest photo, holding it up to the light. The pictures had haunted him ever since he had first reviewed the mission file. Each of the victims seemed to stare out at him with glassy, dead eyes, as if they were pleading for help. They all looked so young --- just boys, really --- young people with their whole lives in front of them. Even covered in blood, they, somehow, still looked pure and innocent. He saw them in his nightmares. Whenever he closed his eyes, they were there … staring at him with unblinking eyes … begging for help … begging for justice.

Although he hadn't shared it with the rest of the team, Aya had already decided Omi would serve as the bait to draw their target out. He planned to have the boy start hanging out at the Crazy Geisha tomorrow night. The cold, calculating part of his brain --- the part that led Weiss --- knew this was the best plan, but the other part --- the part that was still human --- hated everything about it and this mission. There were too many unknowns, and Aya hated walking into anything blind. Yet, blind was the only way they could walk into this situation. The whole thing had made him even more jumpy, irritable, and angry than normal. The string of sleepless nights he had spent poring over the mission folder, hoping to find something else, looking for something that wasn't there, searching desperately for another plan of attack, hadn't done much to better his mood. Neither had the fact that he hadn't been able to come up with any better alternatives. The thought of Omi's face in those pictures … of Omi's eyes staring out at him, begging for help, was making him crazy, but, even with that incentive, he hadn't been able to come up with a better plan. He hadn't even been able to come up with a plausible alternative. Using the boy as bait was the _**only**_ plan. He hated this mission. He hated everything about it. He hated himself for agreeing to take it, and he hated Kritiker for foisting it on them without an adequate background workup.

"This plan sucks. This whole damn mission sucks," he muttered as he flipped through the photos one more time before tossing them onto the table.

* * *

Omi padded down the hall from his room and took the stairs to the kitchen one floor below, gripping the banister to keep from stumbling in the dark. He had gotten up to use the bathroom and noticed the door to Aya's room was open. Curiosity was a laudable trait in an assassin, but giving in to it had led Omi to more sleepless nights than he liked to admit. And, it looked like this was going to be one more. He cursed himself for giving in to his naturally inquisitive tendencies and looking into Aya's room. He wished like hell he hadn't, because, then, he wouldn't have noticed the un-slept-in bed. But, he had seen the damn bed, and, having seen it, he couldn't ignore it. So, instead of heading back to his own room, to lose himself in blissful slumber, he was stumbling down the stairs to look for an errant teammate, and feeling oddly angry at himself for being so damn curious, and at Aya, for not having the good sense to know when to go to bed. As he made his way down the stairs, avoiding the squeaky spots in the old, wooden floor, Omi rubbed at his face and tried to focus his bleary eyes on his watch. After several moments of struggling, he succeeded in reading the time.

"Three A.M.," he muttered. "What the hell is that idiot doing?"

The boy shook his head as he cleared the last stair and saw the light shining from the kitchen. He approached quietly, and stood in the doorway, watching Aya. The redhead was slumped over the table, his head resting on his crossed arms, and his back to the door. Even from his spot just outside the room, the young blonde could see the photographs spread out around him. Omi frowned and debated over what he should do. Aya always seemed super-focused, especially when they were about to undertake a new mission, but this didn't seem like normal behavior, even for Aya. He had a sneaking suspicion something about this mission was eating away at the red-haired swordsman. It wasn't in Omi's nature to ignore someone who was suffering, not if he felt he could help at all, even if "help" meant doing nothing more than lending a friendly ear. But, where Aya was concerned, the young blonde tended to hold himself back a little, almost never offering the friendly ear or supportive shoulder he freely provided to Yohji and Ken. It wasn't that he didn't like Aya. If anything, he didn't know the man, despite the time Aya had spent living, working, and killing with them. He knew Yohji had developed a fondness for the quiet redhead, a fact that struck Omi as odd, since the two of them seemed complete opposites in every way. Ken, on the other hand, professed a deep and abiding dislike for Aya. Their initial meeting hadn't gone well at all. In fact, they had ended up beating the crap out of each other within about the first ten minutes of their association. Yohji jokingly referred to it as Ken and Aya's "getting acquainted" period, much to the redhead's chagrin. At any rate, relations between the ex-goalie and the quiet swordsman hadn't improved much in the ensuing months. Omi tried to remain open-minded about people, even though he felt a little foolish for being that way, considering what an odd personality quirk it was for an assassin, and he had refrained from forming any solid opinion of Aya. He sensed that Aya, despite all outward appearances to the contrary, really needed friendship, companionship, and the moral support of those around him, and that played upon his innate tendency toward being a peacemaker and comforter; it made him want to reach out to their newest teammate. Yet, Aya carefully held everyone at arm's length, refraining from becoming involved in the daily lives and concerns of his teammates --- except for Yohji, he supposed. The tall blonde tended to shadow Aya and keep the redhead company most of the time, so Omi figured they probably talked about something --- although he couldn't, for the life of him, figure out what … and the idea of Aya carrying on a non-Weiss-, non-Koneko-related conversation with someone seemed foreign to the boy. Yohji might have learned to ignore Aya's icy attitude, or, maybe, he had recognized it for the façade it was, but it was still enough to keep Omi at bay. As a result, he just didn't know how to approach Aya. He had no clue how to start a conversation with the man, how to get Aya to open up and share what was bothering him. And, he usually found himself feeling uncomfortable, tense, and tongue-tied in Aya's presence.

Omi had just about decided to turn around and silently retreat back to his room when the picture of Aya's bed flashed through his memory. He didn't think Aya had slept in it for the past two, maybe three, nights, and he wasn't sure if the redhead had slept at all during that time. Omi was normally the first person to get up every morning, and it had become his habit to make his way to the kitchen and prepare coffee for everyone else. For the past three days, he had come down to find Aya at the table, as he was now. He thought about going upstairs and waking Yohji, so the older man could come down and talk to Aya, but he had to dismiss that idea almost as soon as it occurred to him. Yohji was out clubbing, Omi remembered, cursing silently. The tall blonde probably wouldn't be home until well after sunrise.

'Well, guess that just leaves me, then,' Omi thought, with not a little irritation.

He didn't want to talk to Aya. He wanted to turn around and go back to his room, as if he hadn't walked down here … as if he hadn't seen Aya's neatly-made, un-slept-in bed … as if he hadn't seen the quiet man torturing himself with the gory, gruesome photos in their latest mission file. But, he had seen all those things, and, having seen them, he couldn't just pretend he hadn't. It wasn't in his nature to do so, no matter how painful trying to help Aya might be. Omi sighed and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The slight movement made the floor squeak, and Aya started at the small noise, his awareness of Omi's presence now making it impossible for the boy to retreat upstairs.

Omi moved into the room, mumbling, "Sorry, Aya. I didn't mean to startle you."

As Omi dropped into a chair across from him, Aya gathered up the photographs and shuffled them back into the folder, as if he didn't want the boy to see them. At the same time, he glanced over at Omi and said, with a slight, tight, rather forced-looking smile, "It's OK. Serves me right for sitting with my back to the door. An assassin should know better, right?" He paused for the briefest span of time … a heartbeat, maybe two, before continuing, "What're you doing up?"

Omi gave Aya a puzzled look. If anyone else had made that back-to-the-door crack, he would have known they were joking. But, with Aya, he wasn't sure. He thought it might have been an attempt at a joke, albeit a rather pathetic one, but, then again, he couldn't remember hearing one joke or wisecrack out of Aya during the eight or nine months the man had been with them. In fact, the four sentences the redhead had just spoken were more than he had heard Aya say on most days. He had expected icy aloofness, if not outright hostility, but Aya's tone of voice held a tinge of some emotion Omi couldn't pinpoint. If he hadn't known better, he would have thought it was guilt, but he immediately dismissed that as ludicrous. Aya didn't seem the kind of person who would feel guilty about anything … but, then again, Omi had to remember he didn't know the man all that well. He knew something drove Aya to seek revenge against Reiji Takatori, something had driven the man into Kritiker's arms, and, then, into Weiss. He had always believed simple vengeance and hatred fueled Aya's actions, but, perhaps, it was something more. The need for revenge was there, but, maybe, guilt was working just as strongly within the quiet man.

Omi jumped when Aya cleared his throat, a small, uncomfortable noise that sounded loud in the almost oppressive silence that had fallen between them. He tore himself away from his thoughts, realizing, with more than a little embarrassment, that he had been staring at Aya for several minutes without saying anything.

Omi smiled, an imitation of Yohji's crooked, little-boy grin that he hoped would cover his embarrassment. "You don't have to hide those. I've seen them, too. We all have," he said, nodding toward the photographs Aya was still trying to conceal within the manila folder.

Aya sighed and gave an irritated shake of his head as he stuffed the last photograph, none too gently, home into the file. "What're you doing down here?" he repeated, spearing Omi with a searching look that made the younger man uncomfortable.

Omi hated it when Aya looked at him like that. It was almost like the redhead could see right through to his very soul, as if he could pull the thoughts right out of his brain, like that crazy Schwarz telepath. Just the thought of the off-balance German inside his head was enough to make the boy shudder. All in all, he supposed things could be worse. Considering all the negative karma he, Yohji, and Ken had probably racked up by now, they could have easily gotten stuck with Schuldich as their fourth team member. Aya might not be the friendliest person he'd ever met, but at least the redhead wasn't off-balance. Well, maybe he was off-balance, but at least he wasn't a telepath, at least, not that Omi knew.

The boy pulled himself out of his thoughts when he realized Aya was still staring at him, waiting for an answer to his question. He tried to cover his discomfort by prying the mission folder from Aya's fingers. "Had to go to the bathroom," he replied as he opened the file and looked at the photos, carefully schooling his expression so that it didn't betray the disgust and nausea he felt welling up within him.

After a few moments, he glanced sideways at Aya and said, his tone quiet and a little hesitant, "I could ask you the same thing. It looks like your bed hasn't been slept in at all. Everything OK?"

Aya sighed and rubbed his face with his hand. He recognized Omi's question for what it was: a tentative extension of friendship and support. He wanted to take it. He wanted to reach out and take the offered hand, wanted it with all his heart. But, to do so meant he was weak. It meant putting himself in the position of, once again, having to face the fear and pain of losing someone. It was bad enough he'd slipped and let Yohji in. He hadn't meant for it to happen, but, almost before he realized it, the tall blonde had, somehow, wriggled himself into Aya's life. Now, he was firmly entrenched there. He couldn't do it with anyone else. He just wasn't strong enough to bear the consequences of losing anyone else the way he'd lost his parents and sister. He kept his face hidden in his hands for a moment, composing himself so that he could face the boy with the icy, unemotional mask he knew would keep Omi at arm's length. Once he felt mentally prepared, he speared the young blonde with what he hoped was a cold, angry glare, and snapped, "You spying on me?"

Omi started a little at Aya's question and the redhead's icy tone. It was true. He had been spying on all of them, feeding information to Persia and Manx about his teammates' mental states and mission-readiness. Aya had known about it all along, and he had told Omi not to trust Persia, Manx, or Kritiker. Omi hadn't believed him, but, after they had used some of his information against Aya, he had had to admit the redhead had been right. After that, he had stopped spying, had sworn he would put his teammates first, and he hadn't given anything to Persia or Manx in months. He thought Aya had forgiven him for it, but, it seemed the quiet man still held a grudge. Omi couldn't blame him. He knew he'd never truly be able to get through to Aya, to convince the other man of his good intentions. He'd already messed up so badly that he couldn't ever hope to gain Aya's trust, let alone the man's friendship. Still, he had to try. He hated being at odds with anyone, especially someone he had to see every single day. His better judgment told him to leave it alone, to forget about Aya and give up on any kind of friendship with the man, but the peacemaker in him couldn't let it go. Besides, he had promised himself, at the moment he had taken that first step into the kitchen, he wasn't going to back down … even if he was a bit afraid of Aya.

He swallowed, and said, in a soft, quiet voice, "N … no, Aya. I'm not spying. I told you … I won't do that anymore, and I meant it." He paused for a moment, and then, gathering up the courage that made him such a good assassin, he continued, in a cold tone that matched Aya's, icicle for icicle, "Should I be?"

Aya didn't reply. He didn't say anything. He just stared at Omi with that disconcerting, piercing gaze. As always, it made the young blonde shift in his seat. The boy was surprised Aya hadn't used the offensive jab as an excuse to retreat from his presence. Normally, that was what the redhead would do, and the fact that Aya was still sitting across from him, fixing him with that unblinking stare, gave him the courage to continue reaching out to the man.

Omi sighed and said, his voice softer, less defensive, "It seems like you're really beating yourself up over this mission. What's the deal?"

Aya shrugged and pushed his chair back to get up from the table. Omi took this as a sign their conversation, if you could call it that, was over, and he expected the redhead to gather up his mission file and leave the room without another word or a backward glance. He was shocked when Aya leaned over to stand, head hanging and palms flat on the table, resting his weight on his arms, and replied in a quiet, almost embarrassed voice, "This damn mission. Sucks."

Omi didn't respond right away. He was surprised he'd gotten this much out of Aya, and he wasn't sure what to say to keep the other man talking. He covered his uncertainty and shock by leafing through the mission file once more, unable to hold back a grimace at the photographs. Those pictures had gotten to all of them. They were particularly gruesome, and, if Aya had been up for the past three nights poring over these, he could understand why the man was acting so strangely. He shoved the photos back into their folder and said, "Yeah, well, they all do. What's so special about this one?"

Aya shrugged and moved from the table to the sink. Just when Omi was, once again, beginning to think the conversation was over, the swordsman replied, without turning around to face the younger blonde, "I … I just feel … _**wrong**_ about this one. Yeah, they all suck, but … this one. There's no information, no concrete leads on the target, no way we can really be prepared. We're going in blind, and I don't like it. It's too dangerous."

Omi frowned and stared at Aya's back. He didn't think he'd ever heard Aya talk this much, and, even though he'd asked for it, hearing the redhead openly express his uncertainty over the mission made Omi uncomfortable. Aya was always confident, always secure, always sure of himself … or, was he? Omi found himself questioning everything he thought he knew about the quiet man, based on the past few minutes' conversation. And, with a little sense of dread, he wondered exactly what Aya meant when he said this mission was too dangerous. All their missions were dangerous, so what made this one any different?

Omi stared down at the table and thought about their past missions. For every one of them, he could remember Aya drilling them, over and over, about every little detail, until either Ken or Yohji or both of them, threatened him with bodily harm. Even after the other team members mutinied, Omi had seen Aya continue to pore over the mission documents, hour after hour, night after night, until he had memorized every little detail about the mission parameters, the target, and the kill location. Like Yohji and Ken, the boy had always figured Aya was a control freak, but, now, for the first time, Omi realized the redhead was trying to protect them, to ensure that everyone came home unharmed. He jolted himself from his thoughts when he realized Aya was staring at him.

"I've decided on the best way to pursue this assignment, but we won't do it if you don't want to," Aya said. His voice was calm and even, and his eyes, never wavering, fixed Omi with that unnerving gaze.

Suddenly, the boy was certain he didn't want to hear the rest of Aya's statement, but, like a moth drawn to a flame, he heard his voice asking, "Yeah?"

"You go into the club as … bait. With one other member as backup inside, and the other two as backup outside." He paused and watched as his words sank into Omi's sleep-muddled mind. As the boy realized their true meaning, Aya saw him come suddenly, completely awake. He resumed his seat at the table, across from Omi, and looked into the boy's eyes, "I … know … it's not a great plan, but it's the only possibility I've come up with so far. And, believe me … I've given it a lot of thought. We just can't get any information on this guy … if it even is a guy. But, you fit the victim profile, so he might come after you. If that happens, we can get him." He sighed again and ran his fingers through his hair, tugging and pulling at the tangled strands --- that one, small gesture speaking worlds of irritation he couldn't find the words to express. "Shit," he hissed, "This plan fucking sucks. I hate it. I fucking hate it. But, it's all we have. If … you don't want to do this, you don't have to. We'll call the mission off."

Omi stared at Aya, wide-eyed. He wasn't sure which surprised him more: the unexpected, almost emotional, outpouring of conversation from the stoic man, or Aya's offer to allow him to bow out of an uncertain and, potentially, extremely dangerous situation.

"We … we already accepted," he stammered, almost at a loss for words. "Can … we even call it off? I mean … does it … does it even work like that?"

Aya nodded. "Yeah. I won't hesitate to call it off if you don't want to do this."

"But," Omi replied, "… Persia and Manx … I … I can't believe they'd let you call it off. It doesn't seem like …"

Aya cut the boy off with a wave of his hand. "There will be certain … consequences," he replied, cutting his words off, as if he was searching for just the right phrasing. He continued, emphasizing his sentence with an emphatic shake of his head, "It doesn't matter. I don't care. It's your decision."

"What kind of … consequences?" Omi asked, his eyes narrowing in a frown.

Aya looked at Omi with a steady gaze, and, for the first time the boy could remember, there was no anger or coldness in the blue-violet eyes --- just exhaustion, and, maybe, a hint of unease or fear, whether for the "consequences" of which Aya had spoken, or for Omi if he accepted this mission, the boy couldn't tell. "It doesn't matter, Omi," he said, his voice barely carrying across the table. "It shouldn't affect your decision."

That told the younger blonde everything he needed to know. He was struck by the sudden urge to protect Aya. It was something he hadn't felt before, and it surprised him. To him, Aya had always seemed to stand apart --- strong, self-assured, neither needing nor wanting anyone's protection or help. But the man sitting across from him wasn't at all like the Aya he thought he knew. Maybe it was the pale, haggard face, the deep bluish-purple circles under his eyes, the trembling hands --- all of which told a story of sleepless nights and decisions Aya didn't want to make, but to which he was inevitably drawn. Maybe it was Aya's genuine concern for his safety, which surprised and touched him. Whatever the case, for the first time, Omi felt protectiveness and genuine fondness rush through him, just as he felt toward Yohji and Ken. It was almost like the boy finally felt, for the first time since Aya's arrival, that the redhead was truly a member of his team, a part of the family, so to speak.

Omi looked down at the folder for a moment, and then replied, in a soft, almost inaudible voice, without looking up, "It does matter. I'll do it." He looked up at the older man and managed a somewhat reassuring smile as he finished, "Besides, we can't let this guy get away with this. So, who'll be my back up inside? Yohji? He'd probably be the most comfortable. He does like clubbing, after all. I think it's what he lives for."

Aya surprised Omi with a laugh. "Yeah," he replied, "Yohji in a club "working". Why not just let a thief guard the bank, while we're at it?"

It was a night for surprises. If he didn't know better, Omi would have thought Aya had just made a joke, but that couldn't be true. Aya didn't joke. In the several months he'd been with them, Omi hadn't seen the man so much as crack a smile. Not only that, but, although the redhead's statement about Yohji had been harsh, the tone behind it was amused, and there was none of the familiar, cold disdain in Aya's eyes. Omi had known Yohji was quite fond of Aya, but, for the first time, he realized that fondness might just go both ways. He stared at Aya for a few moments, open-mouthed with shock, and, then, embarrassed at his reaction, he laughed in response.

Aya had paused while he watched the emotions and reactions play across Omi's face. The boy could be such an open book, and it was obvious he'd surprised and shocked the younger blonde. For some reason, Aya was amused and rather pleased at being able to get such a reaction out of the kid. He knew, after tonight, Omi would wonder if they had been reading him correctly all along, and he liked throwing people off balance that way. It wasn't that he was mean-spirited. It was just that, in his past experience, keeping people off balance around you gave you a slim advantage that, in the end, could mean the difference between living and dying. It didn't matter that Omi was a teammate. He hadn't been with Weiss for very long, but Aya had worked as an assassin for several years, and the need to have that slim advantage on the margin of life and death had become almost second nature to him.

Finally, he continued, in a soft, serious voice, "Besides, this is a _**gay**_ club. It's not really Yohji's cup of tea, is it?"

"Well, it's not mine, either!" Omi squeaked in protest. He stared at Aya with wide, shocked eyes.

"If you're implying it's mine, you'd be sadly mistaken," the redhead replied with a short, harsh laugh. "I don't think Yohji could hold it together enough to preserve his cover in a place like that. He's great at undercover … but, I'm not sure he's that great. Unfortunately for you, I would probably be able to blend in better than that idiot."

"Why do you say "unfortunately for me"?" Omi asked.

"Well," Aya replied, looking down at the floor in an effort to cover the embarrassed flush that colored his face, "Yohji's probably a lot more fun to be around in a place like that." He paused, staring at the table in front of him, and muttered, almost under his breath, as if he hadn't meant to and didn't realize he was saying it out loud, "Probably a lot more fun to be around … wherever."

Omi smiled sympathetically at Aya's statement. It had sounded so sad, almost regretful. Just one more surprise in a long string of them. He hadn't ever heard Aya sound like that. He couldn't believe how much the redhead was letting his emotions slip, and he thought Aya must be exhausted if he wasn't able to maintain the tight, icy grip he normally kept on his feelings. Omi figured the slight mental lapse had to be a surer sign of Aya's fatigue than his physical appearance. Impulsively, he reached out and gripped Aya's hand, which rested on the table, about halfway between them. He gave it a gentle squeeze, surprised again when the older man didn't withdraw at the physical contact, and rose to exit the kitchen.

When he reached the door, he called back, over his shoulder, "Yohji might be fun, but I probably stand a better chance of leaving there alive if I'm with you. You should get some sleep, Aya. You really look like shit, you know. I'll take your early shift tomorrow, so you can sleep in." With that, the boy disappeared up the stairs leading to the floor where their rooms were located.

"Thanks, Omi," Aya muttered, knowing the young blonde was already too far up the stairs to have heard him.

He gathered up the file. He hated it as a sign of weakness, this need for reassurance and companionship. The boy's confident words had lifted his spirits, filling him with hope that, maybe, despite his misgivings and forebodings, they could pull off this shitty mission. He hated that, too. And, he hated himself for needing and wanting exactly what Omi had given him. He thought about it for several minutes, and then followed the boy up the stairs.


	2. Chapter 2

The noise in the night club was almost deafening --- a constant, dull, throbbing roar that vibrated and boomed through the floor, into your feet, up your legs, and through your body until it finally settled in your chest and head, where it rattled your ribs and shook your brain, refusing to let go. Loud rock music rumbled through giant speakers that hung from the ceiling above a dance floor so crowded there wasn't room to breathe, much less truly move. The music reverberated and rumbled around the room, shaking the floor and walls, until nothing about it was distinguishable, except for the heavy, thrumming, bass beat that seemed to drive everything and everyone in the crowded, smoky club. The room was dark, lit only by spotlights nestled at its corners and strobe lights that hung from the middle of the ceiling, flashing and blinking circles of colored light across the mindless people crowding the dance floor, moving dully to the beat of the music as if they were partaking in some tribal ritual. Fans pumped a soft haze of fake smoke into the air, where a fog of cigarette smoke, which drifted around the floor and bar before floating up to hang just under the ceiling, joined it to create a dense, gray cloud of indoor smog.

Aya perched on a tall stool in one of the club's darkest back corners, just as he had every night for the past week. He had carefully placed himself so that his back was to the wall, affording him an excellent view of almost the entire club. His elbows were propped on a tall, spindly-legged table, and he cradled his head on his open hands as he listlessly, almost absently, watched the activity around him. What he had told Omi that night in the Koneko's kitchen was true. He didn't have much experience clubbing. By the time he'd been old enough to partake of the city's nightlife, he was already an assassin, bent on revenge and living only for vengeance. He'd always thought, perhaps, he'd missed out on something, but, after shadowing Omi for the past week, he had decided that was definitely not the case. He hated it --- all of it: the dark room; the throbbing, pulsing music; the constant haze of smoke; the crush of people all around, jostling against you, spilling alcohol all over you; coming home smelling like stale booze, stale cigarette smoke, and even staler puke; the constant background noise that combined with the music to hover at an almost deafening din at the back of your mind. He didn't know how Yohji could stand it, and, yet, the tall blonde professed to love losing himself in a dark, smoky room and the crush of hundreds of strangers' bodies pushed up against his own. Aya had a headache --- had had a headache for the entire week, in fact --- and he found himself thinking, not for the first time, that if their target didn't make a move soon, he'd just have to commit suicide to spare himself any more of this noisy, tribal, almost animalistic ritual known as "clubbing". The best thing he had to say for the place was that their assassin gear seemed to fit right in with the dress code. He and Omi both wore their killing clothes. Concealing his sword under his long trench had been easy, and he knew Omi had a decent supply of darts hidden under his jacket, even though the boy hadn't been able to bring his crossbow. Aya ran a practiced eye over a similarly dressed crowd, and wondered just how many of these people were hiding weapons of some sort.

If he had been forced to judge just from what he had seen this week, Aya would have guessed the city's entire population was either gay or bisexual. There were people crowded into the club, almost wall-to-wall, and he knew there was a line of hopefuls outside that curled around almost a whole city block. He and Omi had been lucky, in that respect. The first night they'd come, the bouncer and door man had spotted them immediately and waved them in, thanks, in large part, to their exotic looks. After coming here for an entire week of nights, the guys working the door recognized them as "regulars", and they didn't even have to wait in line any more. People crowded onto the dance floor and around its edges, as well as around the tables and stools clustered throughout the club. Everyone seemed to have a drink in their hand, and they laughed and yelled to be heard over the music, jostling each other and spilling alcohol on anyone within arm's reach. Aya had gone home every night this week reeking, head to toe, of liquor, even though he hadn't had a single drink. And, that pissed him off. No one should have to smell like booze without getting to partake. It wasn't fair. Aya could feel the crowd bumping and pushing against him even now, but he ignored it. It had bothered him at first. Now, though, the unwelcome personal contact had become nothing more than a minor irritation, as had the almost constant stream of men, women, and men who just looked like women approaching him to ask for a dance, a date, or something more.

From his position, he had a fairly clear view of the whole club, except for the rest rooms, which were behind him and slightly to his left. As long as Omi remained out in the middle of the action, it was pretty easy to keep an eye on the kid. Right now, the young blonde was working the opposite side of the club, and it looked as if he had also managed to attract more than his fair share of unwanted attention. But, unlike Aya, Omi couldn't refuse his suitors. After all, the boy was supposed to be the bait for their target, and he was playing his part perfectly, allowing one person after another to lead him onto the dance floor or buy him a drink, which he surreptitiously discarded as soon as his admirer's back was turned.

Aya shifted into a more comfortable position on his stool, causing the buckles on his trench and boots to clink against the table's metal legs. He glanced down to make sure his weapon was still hidden underneath the long coat. For about the millionth time since starting this fucked-up mission, Aya felt almost stupidly grateful for the sword's heavy presence pressing against his side like a familiar friend. He was glad their wet work gear blended in so well. Going into a situation like this, just the two of them, unarmed, would have been too foolhardy, and he wouldn't have done it. If it had come to that, he would have made himself the bait, even though he didn't fit the victim profile and it would have resulted in a mission failure. They knew so little about this mission and the target, and he was still uncomfortable with that fact. He wouldn't have been able to bear the oppressive feeling of not knowing, of not being certain what they were facing, if they had had to come in here unarmed and helpless. Well, neither of them was ever truly "helpless", but, still, having the weapons there was a comfort and a relief.

Besides, there hadn't been a distinguishable pattern to the target's kills, which meant the beast could strike at any time. They had to be ready to act on a moment's notice. They had been poised and ready for action for a week now, but with no result. Although Omi had attracted more than a fair amount of attention, none of the people approaching him had seemed overly interested, and no one had tried anything yet. The tension of constant readiness and, yet, being unable to release themselves into action, was beginning to wear on his nerves. He knew it was starting to get to Omi, too. After the first five unsuccessful nights, Aya had decided they didn't need their outside backup, and he had relieved Yohji and Ken of the task of waiting in the car every night, watching the outside of the club. He figured there was no use in all four of them being constantly tense and irritable from the stress, and, besides, he had gotten sick and tired of hearing Yohji complain about how boring it was to sit in the car all night, listening to Ken's soccer stories. An unexpected bonus was the perverse pleasure Aya was getting out of forcing Yohji, who was a notoriously late-riser, to work Omi's early shifts at the flower shop.

Aya speared his latest admirer with his best icy-cold death glare and dismissed him with an angry wave of his hand, sending the man scurrying from the table toward the dance floor. He jumped as the communicator in his ear crackled to life with a screech of static.

"Looks like you're Mr. Popular, Abyssinian. But, if you keep turning people away like that, you'll never find Mr. Right, you know," Omi's teasing voice sang out over the comm..

"Yeah, well, Mama always said I didn't know how to play nice," Aya responded, his voice mimicking Omi's teasing tone. He lifted his drink to his lips to camouflage his speech.

Omi's soft laughter crackled through over the comlink. The boy hadn't wanted to take on this mission. The thought of going to a gay club had been almost unbearably unpleasant, and the idea of spending so much time, virtually alone, with Aya, had been equally as uncomfortable and daunting. But, he was surprised to find he really liked working with the redhead like this. After the first night, they had become accustomed to each other, and had slipped into a comfortable, almost teasing, banter, which still surprised the young blonde. It seemed his initial assessments of Aya had been wrong. There was a lot more to the man than what appeared on the surface, and, not for the first time, Omi felt he understood how Aya and Yohji could have become so close. Considering some of Aya's comments during the past week, not to mention the redhead's protective, almost mother-hen attitude about watching his back, it was almost like working with Yohji. In fact, Omi had almost forgotten, a couple of times, that he was with Abyssinian and not Balinese.

"If I didn't know better, I'd almost think that was a joke," Omi said, his voice quiet and serious. The boy paused for a second before asking, resuming the light, teasing tone he'd employed before, "So, getting any good offers?"

"Mmm," Aya replied, "Yeah. Enough. Let's just say I'm starting to seriously consider a career change." Omi laughed again, and it sounded as if he was about to reply, when Aya cut him off by saying, his voice suddenly serious, all business, "Look alive, Bombay. Bogey coming in on your right."

"Yours, too," Omi replied before turning to talk to his newest admirer.

Aya jumped when he felt a strong hand grasp his shoulder in an iron grip, and he turned to face a tall, impeccably-dressed man. Aya guessed the man was probably a bit taller than he was, and he looked to be a few pounds heavier, too, although it was obvious that his bulk was all muscle. He could see the faint outlines of the man's leg and arm muscles through the tan linen suit and light blue linen shirt he wore. Even in the club's dim light, the red-haired swordsman could see the man had piercing, light blue eyes and short, jet-black hair, which he wore, slicked back, away from his face. Aya had to admit, if he had been gay, he probably would have considered going home with this guy.

"Mind if I have a seat?" the man asked, smiling to reveal perfectly white, perfectly straight teeth, and, at the same time, gesturing toward the empty stool across the table from Aya. His Japanese was flawless, although he had a slight English accent.

Aya regarded the stranger with the same cold look he reserved for anyone who dared approach him, and replied, "Not interested."

The man laughed silently, shaking his head, and pulled out the stool, ignoring Aya's icy demeanor and the refusal of permission for the requested seat. He draped his long legs over the stool in an easy, lazy gesture that, oddly enough, reminded Aya of Yohji, and sat down, cutting off the redhead's view of Omi. Aya did his best to ignore the man and to reinforce how unwelcome the stranger's company was by pretending he wasn't even sitting at the table. The redhead didn't bother even looking at the new arrival. Instead, he shifted his stool a little to the left, in an attempt to catch sight of Omi again. Unfortunately, he failed, as the stranger was large enough to completely cut off his view, and he couldn't resume his surveillance of Omi without leaning way, way to the left to peer around the man's shoulder. Aya figured that would be too obvious, so he settled for glaring at the stranger sitting across from him, hoping that would be enough to drive the man away.

"I know," the stranger replied, "I've been watching you shoot down hopefuls all night. Well, all week, really. You're responsible for a lot of deflated egos --- male, female, and anything in between. And, I have to admit, you've even intrigued me, which isn't easy to do." He paused and regarded Aya for a moment before offering his hand in a handshake, saying, "I'm Roland. Roland Harrister. I own this club."

Aya looked at the hand extended across the table toward him as if it was covered in filth. After a moment of silent disdain, he looked back toward the stranger, pointedly ignoring the greeting gesture, and said, his voice and eyes cold with anger and frustration at the stranger's intrusion into their mission parameters, "I'm sure your mother's very proud. But, I'm still not interested."

Aya had to hand it to the guy. If his rude response had angered Harrister, the dark-haired man didn't show it, other than a slight twitching of the outstretched hand that still rested on the table between them and an almost imperceptible stiffening of his back. He smiled, but, unlike the greeting gesture he had employed minutes before, this one didn't reach his eyes. Instead of seeming genuine, it had a predatory aspect, and Aya felt his blood run a bit colder at this first inkling of Harrister's temper. He knew it was foolish, but something about this man set his nerves on edge, although he couldn't quite put his finger on exactly what.

Harrister sighed and withdrew the offered hand. "I forgot. You Japanese don't like to shake hands. Ten years in this country, and I still forget." He shrugged and unfolded his body from its seated position, graceful as a lion rousing from a mid-afternoon nap. As he passed behind Aya, he leaned in close, his mouth inches away from the redhead's ear, and whispered, "Too bad. But, if you ever change your mind, just call." He slipped a business card into Aya's hand and calmly walked away through the crowd that had gathered nearby to stare at the two men. As he approached, the gaggle of onlookers parted to allow him passage.

Now that the distraction was gone, Aya shuddered and tried to shake the feeling he needed a shower, almost immediately turning his attention back to Omi. The boy was still engaged in animated conversation with the man the redhead had warned him about. Of all the people who had approached Omi, this guy seemed the most likely candidate for their dark beast. He was young --- older than Omi but younger than Aya --- and he was dressed completely in black. His hair was also black, except for the ends, which were bleached a light, almost platinum, blonde. He wore several heavy, chunky chain bracelets on each wrist, as well as heavy silver chains and dangling pendants around his neck. When he gestured during a particularly animated moment of conversation, Aya noticed he was wearing black fingernail polish.

But, it wasn't his appearance that made the hair on the back of Aya's neck stand on end; it was the way he acted. He watched Omi a little too intently, leaned in a little too closely, and he was too nervous. He kept glancing around, as if he was hiding from someone and afraid of being discovered, and he constantly tried to position himself within easy reach of Omi's drink. Aya glanced down at his watch, and realized there were only fifteen minutes until last call, which would make this guy's timing perfect, too. They had guessed, from matching the days on which the victims disappeared with their approximate times of death, that the killer had picked each victim up shortly before closing time and then held them prisoner for several days before killing them.

Aya clicked on his comm. and said, "Heads up, Bombay. This one's a definite possible." He frowned when Omi failed to respond. 'It's OK,' he thought, unable to shake the uneasy feeling, 'He can't say anything with that guy right there. Doesn't mean anything's wrong.'

He got up and gathered his trench coat tightly around his body to conceal his sword as he heard the bartender announce last call. According to the plan, Omi would remain at his table until most of the crowd filed out of the club, and, then, he would lead the target toward the back door to the parking lot, where Aya would meet them. After confirming they had the right man, they would quietly and quickly dispatch the evil beast. Aya's heart skipped a beat as he saw Omi allow the stranger to lead him away from the table, and the two of them disappeared into the crowd exiting the club.

"Shit," Aya hissed under his breath as he pushed and shoved his way through the crowd. He struggled to choke back his fear as he fought against the tide of humanity to catch up with Omi and the stranger, who was leading the young blonde out the back door and to the parking lot. "Damn it! I knew I shouldn't have let Yohji and Ken stay home!" he muttered as he sped through the crowd, ignoring the yelps of surprise and insults that trailed after him from people he elbowed or shoved out of the way in his desperate bid to catch up to his partner.

He was Omi's back-up. It was his job to protect the boy. He couldn't lose them. No matter what he had to do to prevent it, he couldn't let that guy get Omi into a car before he caught up to them. If that happened, he knew he'd never see the kid again --- not until he saw Omi's dead eyes staring at him from the next set of mission photographs. And, he'd have no one to blame but himself, because of all the mistakes he'd made --- going into this mission so blind, becoming so complacent that he'd allowed their outside backup to leave, letting that stranger distract him in the club. He couldn't stand the thought of Omi suffering and dying like the other victims had. No. He couldn't let that happen to the boy. He wouldn't. He wouldn't go through that again; he wouldn't be responsible for someone else's suffering ever again --- not if there was anything he could do to prevent it.

He shoved his way through the last cluster of club-goers and burst through the back door into the chilly night air just in time to see the stranger lean Omi up against the side of a car parked across the lot, in a dark and deserted spot, where any activity would go unnoticed by the drunken, exhausted partiers exiting the club. That clenched it, as far as the redhead was concerned. The guy had parked in the most deserted spot on the lot, near where Aya had parked his Porsche. Only people with something to hide would go out of their way to park in a place like that, and he should know. Omi slumped against the car, completely submissive to the stranger, which told Aya the guy had slipped something into the kid's drink. It must have happened during those few minutes in which Harrister had distracted him, and Aya cursed himself for his lapse. He knew better than to allow something like that to happen when they were on the hunt. A moment's distraction could get someone killed. There would be time enough later for him to beat himself up over the mental slip-up, but, for now, he had to be satisfied that at least he'd gotten to Omi in time.

Aya broke away from the crowd, skirting the dark edge of the parking lot, and managed to approach the stranger from behind without being noticed. As he slipped up behind them, he saw Omi come out of his stupor enough to try and fight off the stranger, but the boy's reactions were slowed by whatever the guy had given him. The stranger easily sidestepped Omi's clumsy lunge and swiftly turned, brutally backhanding the boy and sending him crashing to the ground just as Aya made his killing leap. He didn't have any doubts. This guy was the target; his behavior toward Omi had confirmed that in Aya's mind. Aya's sword, powered by the rage he felt at the stranger for his treatment of Omi, and by the anger he felt toward himself for almost losing his partner, severed flesh and bone as easily as if it was slicing through butter. There was a sickening, wet sound and a strangled cry of surprise and pain, which was cut off when Death arrived to seal the man's lips forever. The stranger was dead long before his body crumpled to the ground with a dull, almost hollow thud.

Aya stepped over the target's body and knelt next to Omi, who was slumped, stunned, against the side of the target's car. He looked into the boy's eyes, praying he would see a glimmer of emotion there, a spark of recognition. He didn't have any idea what the guy had slipped the kid. Considering the brutality and vindictiveness with which the target had treated his victims, it could have been almost anything, and Aya just prayed it wasn't something that would do Omi permanent damage. He didn't think he could live with that, especially not when it was his fault it had happened. Omi blinked at him for a moment or two. He was dazed and confused, and his eyes were glazed and unfocused. But, after the first few blinks, Aya thought he saw recognition flash through the kid's eyes, and the boy hadn't passed out. That had to be a good sign, right?

He gripped Omi's shoulder, giving the boy a gentle shake, and asked, "Hey. You okay?"

Omi nodded in response. Suddenly, he tried to focus on something behind Aya's back, and his eyes took on a terrified expression. He mouthed words several times before he finally managed to choke out, in a strangled whisper, "Aya … watch … out."

Omi's whispered warning was swallowed by a scream of pure, primal rage. Aya whirled toward the sound just as Roland Harrister descended on him out of the shadows, holding a medium-length wooden board. As he jumped forward, the Englishman swung the board toward the side of Aya's head, where it impacted, full-force, with a loud, sickening, smack. The swordsman didn't have time to defend himself, and he crumpled to the ground next to Omi in the pool of their target's blood, dropping his sword as he fell.

It all happened so fast, really, but, in Omi's mind, it seemed to take an eternity --- seconds ticking out in slow motion, stretching into oblivion. The attacker hit Aya with enough force to snap his head almost completely around, and the swordsman's body seemed to hang in the air before slowly, almost like a movie shown in slow motion, crumpling to the ground. It was funny how he noticed small details at a time like this: that the man's face was twisted in rage, his lips curled back from his teeth in a savage snarl, that Aya had managed to come halfway to his feet, that Aya's hair seemed to whip around a split second after his head, and that the swordsman looked almost surprised as his eyes went dead and slid closed. The impact made a dull, hollow sound --- the same sound a melon makes when it breaks against a concrete sidewalk. Omi wanted to scream. He wanted to scream, but he couldn't make his voice obey his brain's commands. He couldn't do anything but watch, helplessly, held prisoner by the drug their target had slipped into his drink, as Aya crumpled to the ground next to him. He couldn't even summon up the coordination to reach out and attempt to cushion the redhead's fall. Omi felt his stomach lurch, threatening to disgorge its contents, even though he knew there was little in there to release. As he gave in to the blackness trying to engulf him, the last thing he saw was Aya, lying next to him in a pool of blood. It was an image that would return to haunt him, in his nightmares, for some time to come.


	3. Chapter 3

**NOTE:** _Hi! Wow --- I just want to thank everyone who has read and reviewed this story so far. I am totally floored by the supportive reviews ... and, really, quite, quite speechless. I never dreamed anyone might read this monstrosity of a story ... and actually like it, too. I'm grateful beyond words. I hope the wheels won't come off our "fun wagon" here in chapter 3, though ... because Ken makes his first "real" appearance. I'll just tell everyone up front I'm not comfortable writing him at all ... so, hope I don't get too many spamming hate-mails. Anyhow, I hope you can still enjoy the story ... Ken aside. Oh ... and to "A Reader" ... in answer to your question about timeline ... no, the WK stories don't follow any particular timeline other than the twisted one inside my head. They occur at all different times, and I tend to pick and choose, mixing things I like from the anime, the manga, and even Gluhen. Anyhow ... on with the story ...  
**tex-chan**_

Yohji rolled over in bed, stretched, and smiled in his sleep. He was in the middle of the best dream. He and Asuka were in his car, with the top down, driving through the most beautiful forest he had ever seen. It was a gorgeous, early spring morning, and the sky was the kind of pure, crystal blue that makes you squint and brings tears to your eyes when you look at it. The trees towered above, interlocking branches closing in over the road, and the air in the shady spots felt cool and fresh on his skin --- a journey from the gentle warmth of spring to the first chill of autumn within the span of seconds, only to emerge in spring again at the next break in the forest canopy, the next sunny spot on the road. Asuka was so much more beautiful than he remembered. Memories, colored by the pain of loss, made her perfect, her flaws forgotten in the haze of bliss over having her near him once more. Her arm rested against the headrest of his seat, and she ran her fingers through his hair, tugging playfully at the shoulder-length ends. He had missed her so much, but, now, Yohji knew he had been foolish to feel that way. She hadn't left him. She was still alive. All that other stuff --- the bad memories … watching her die, screaming her name as he saw her fall, sobbing out his pain night after night, the never-ending, hollow ache she had left --- was the dream. This … this was real. She was alive, and she was here, with him, just like always.

Yohji felt happy and free. He hadn't felt that way in a long, long time --- couldn't remember the last time he'd felt like that, actually, which, considering Asuka was here, with him … that she'd never left … was just foolish. He could feel his heart soaring, and his soul sang out in joy. He had the dim feeling, in the back of his mind, that he hadn't felt joy in a long time, that he had forgotten he even had a soul, but he glanced over at Asuka's smiling face and shook his head, dismissing that idea as ludicrous. What did he have to despair over, when she was here like this? His traitorous mind brought up memories of endless nights spent in dark, dirty, smoke-filled bars, of couplings with one faceless, nameless woman after another, all in a desperate attempt to find Asuka, a pathetic bid to regain everything he had lost. This --- this moment with Asuka, a world where the sun always shone --- was all he had ever wanted. From their first meeting, he had fallen in love with her immediately. She was every woman to him, and his mind paraded a string of willing bedmates before him, each and every one nothing more than a faded replacement for the love he had lost. Yohji shook his head, refusing to believe it. No. That wasn't real. None of that was real. This was his reality now. She was here with him, and he finally had forever with her. He could die a happy man now. It was all he wanted.

He turned to her and smiled, leaning his head into her touch, relishing the feel of her fingers against his skin, the tug of them running through his hair. This was his world, and he was grateful. He had all he could hope for, all his wishes and dreams answered in her playful expression, her laughing, dark eyes. Asuka turned to him, her eyes dancing with some secret joke, and smiled that mysterious smile of hers --- playful, teasing, yet, yearning and full of promise … a little girl and seductress in one perfect, package --- and Yohji felt his blood quicken, his insides tingle with pleasure and anticipation. She started to say something, perhaps share her private joke with him. Just as she opened her mouth, the angry jangling of a telephone cut off her words.

'Wait a minute,' Yohji thought as he stared at Asuka, 'That's not right. My cell phone's broken. Aya broke it last week.'

The phone rang again, screaming for attention. By the fifth ring, Asuka started to disappear, melting away before his eyes. Yohji reached out toward her, begging her not to go, not to leave him alone again. He felt the familiar lump rising in his throat, the well-known shock of fear at realizing that maybe, just maybe, this was the dream, and all that other stuff --- the horrible nightmares and bad memories --- was his reality. He didn't want this to end. He wanted to stay asleep forever, just so he wouldn't have to be alone any more, just so he wouldn't have to face one more day knowing she was gone forever. The phone rang once more, and Asuka smiled at him as she faded away.

'No,' Yohji thought, 'Please, please don't let this be a dream. Please let it be real.'

By the seventh ring his dream world was gone, and Yohji was back in his dark bedroom, alone and broken-hearted, no warm, sunny day, no cool breeze on his skin, no Asuka. He stared down at his hands, wondering why they were wet, and only then realized he was crying. He cursed himself for being such a stupid idiot as he swiped at a tear that had escaped his eye and rolled down his cheek. What kind of weakling let a dream get to him like that? What kind of idiot wanted it to be so real that he cried when it was gone? Sighing, Yohji stared at the phone as he thought he was just that kind of weak idiot, and he didn't care. He had wanted it to be real. He still did.

As the phone hollered for a tenth, and then, an eleventh time, Yohji glared at it and thought about just how much he hated Ken right now. That stupid jock could sleep through anything. He wouldn't hear the phone if it rang inside his head, and, now, just because some idiot ex-soccer star had the nerve to sleep like a log instead of doing the decent thing and staying up waiting for the phone to ring, Yohji's perfect world had been ruined. He'd never be able to get that dream back, and it had been so real, too. He thought about leaving the phone, just letting it continue to scream into the night, while he went down the hall and pounded Ken for being such a stupid shit. But, then, he dismissed that idea. Ken wouldn't know why Yohji was beating him up, and that would take all the fun out of it. Besides, the damn phone wasn't going to stop any time soon, and someone had to answer it.

Still cursing the ex-goalie for being such a stupid, heavy-sleeping fucker, the tall blonde reached across the bed and fumbled for the telephone. After two tries, he managed to knock the handset off its base. It fell to the floor, hitting the carpet with a muffled thud, and rolled under the bed. Yohji leaned out over the side of his bed, hanging halfway off, and peered into the murky, dust-bunny-littered darkness underneath. He could hear a woman's voice calling "Hello? Hello?" from the handset, and he frowned in confusion. It sounded like Manx.

He twisted around to look at the digital clock on his bedside table, but the numbers seemed to shift and move in front of his bleary eyes, making it impossible to tell the time. Yohji sighed and pushed off from the floor, back into a sitting position on the bed as he reached over to, once again, fumble on his nightstand. After another few seconds, he managed to locate his sunglasses, and he pulled them onto his face, almost immediately feeling better and more awake for having their familiar weight resting there. Then, he turned his attention to the clock again, squinting and staring from behind his dark lenses until the shifting, red blobs flowed together into something resembling numbers. It looked like four A.M. Four A.M.? Why would Manx be calling at this time of the morning?

The voice from the phone continued to call out, rising exponentially with each successively ignored attempt at communication. The caller was becoming more irritated by the second, and the small, staticky sound of impotent anger spewing from the hidden handset jerked Yohji out of his train of thought. He leaned over again, palms flat on the floor, and, resting his weight on one arm, reached under the bed with his free hand. He grunted as his fingers brushed against the elusive telephone, pushing it just out of reach. He leaned over just a little further, stretching his arm out as far as he could, and, finally, managed to reach the receiver. Just as he grabbed the phone, Yohji lost his balance and fell in a heap on the floor, banging his head and letting out a startled yelp of surprise in the process. By now, the caller was screaming, and the blonde assassin winced as he put the phone up to his ear and the harsh sound of an angry woman jarred him awake.

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered, "'M here. I'm here."

"Balinese. Manx." the woman snapped, clipping her words off, as if she was in a hurry or upset. But, then, that wouldn't be any different than her normal tone of communication with Weiss. She always seemed hurried, upset, or both. Yohji had decided, long ago, that Manx's problem was that she was just a bitch, plain and simple.

"It's four A.M.," Yohji whined.

"Bombay and Abyssinian haven't checked in," Manx snapped. "Are they there?"

Yohji wasn't surprised to hear tension in the woman's voice. Manx was always tense about one thing or another. But, he was shocked to realize he also heard fear and worry in there, and that was unlike her. He knew better than to think their employers and their red-haired handler thought of them as anything more than temporarily useful, albeit completely expendable, pawns in their sick game of cat and mouse. So, if Manx was worried and afraid, it had to mean she was concerned over protecting her own hide. That was the way it worked. And, if she was concerned enough to call here at four in the morning, it couldn't be good.

Yohji knew Manx was the one who had insisted Weiss move ahead with their latest mission, despite the lack of background information. He wasn't supposed to know. When Aya had told them about the plan to move forward, he had made it sound like it was his idea, but Yohji had overheard him arguing about it with Manx several days before they had started staking out the club. The swordsman had insisted they didn't have enough information to identify and eliminate the target without putting the team at risk, but Manx had refused to take his concerns to Persia. Instead, she had threatened to retire him and disband Weiss if he refused to move forward. Yohji didn't have any idea why Manx was so hot for them to complete this particular mission; perhaps it was some kind of career-maker for her with Kritiker. Truthfully, he really didn't care. He knew Manx's actions had forced Aya's hand, pushing him into taking the team into the field before he felt they were ready. That fact alone meant Manx, as well as Aya and Omi, would reap the consequences of a mission failure. If, heaven forbid, something happened to Aya and Omi, then Manx's head would be the only one left on the chopping block.

As Yohji's sleep-muddled brain ticked down the list of possible reasons for the unaccustomed note of fear and worry in Manx's voice and came to the inevitable conclusion that she must think something had happened to Aya and Omi, he felt her emotions take hold of him. It was as if they had crawled through the telephone to lodge in his brain and, then, skitter down to squeeze his heart and tie his stomach into knots. He could feel his heart thudding against his rib cage, and the sound of it beating in his ears was almost deafening. For a moment, he couldn't even hear the irate woman who had been shouting at him all this time.

"Balinese," she snapped, "Are you even listening to me? Balinese!"

"Uh, uh, yeah," Yohji finally replied when the roaring in his ears subsided enough so he could hear his own voice.

"Yeah, they're there?" Manx hissed.

She was getting angrier by the second. The tall blonde assassin seemed to have that effect on her for some reason. Normally, Yohji would have derived a perverse pleasure from irritating the shit out of Manx, but, right now, he didn't even care. That was how scared he had suddenly become.

"Um, no," Yohji mumbled. "I mean," he corrected, "I don't know."

"Check. And call me back," Manx snapped, hanging up with a sharp, decisive click.

Yohji lay on the floor for a few seconds, staring at the receiver in his hand. It beeped angrily at him, having been left off the base for too long after the call had disconnected. He felt the knot in his stomach growing, and his heart had, once again, started to hammer against his ribcage. Still, he struggled to choke back his panic so that he could think rationally.

'It's okay. Everything's just fine.' he thought, trying to slow down his racing heart and control the fear that threatened to take control of his mind and body.

"It's OK," he repeated in a whisper, as if saying it out loud would make it true. "I mean, it's not like that's me and Ken out there. It's Aya, for crying out loud. Nothing could happen to Aya. And Omi. Nothing could happen to Omi if he's with Aya. Aya wouldn't let it. He's a total asshole, and a control freak. He'd never let anything happen to any of us, unless it was his idea." He felt the panic and fear begin to subside, and he chuckled. "Right. So, why are we panicking? There's no reason to worry. This is Aya we're talking about. He probably just forgot to call, that's all."

Yohji felt a chill run down his spine, and his stomach lurched, as he thought, 'That's not right. Aya's such a fucker. He'd never forget to call in. Not that guy.'

He could feel the cold creeping over him, as if all the blood was running from his body, and he felt the alcohol he had so recently drunk surge into his throat, forcing him to swallow before he spilled the contents of his stomach onto the floor. The panic and fear slammed back into him, sending him scrambling to his feet and running for the door to his bedroom. He tripped over the sheets, which were still tangled around his torso and legs. He kicked free of them, cursing, and stumbled out the door and into the hallway. As he tripped and stumbled down the corridor, struggling to regain his balance, Yohji prayed he was wrong --- that he would crash through the door to Aya's room, only to have the redhead curse angrily and throw a pillow at him for disturbing his sleep. But, in his heart, he knew the room would be empty.

Yohji skidded to a stop in front of Aya's room. He was wearing socks, and he slid on the slick, wooden floor so that he overshot the doorway and had to grab the knob to keep from falling. Once he regained his balance, he paused for a moment and took a deep breath. If Aya was inside, asleep, he knew he'd pay later for waking the surly redhead so abruptly. The swordsman could have a pretty bad temper and a very short fuse. Yohji had been on the receiving end of that anger enough times to know, better than anyone, how frightening Aya could be when he was pissed. He leaned forward and pressed his ear against the door, straining to hear if there was any sound from within, but he couldn't hear anything. Yohji sighed and pushed the door open, wincing as the hinges squeaked. The sound seemed impossibly loud in the still, silent hallway, and the tall blonde peered around the half-open door to survey Aya's room.

In contrast to his own personal space, where there were always clothes and shoes on the floor, a bottle of booze on the nightstand, at least two ashtrays full of smoldering cigarette butts, and a perpetually unmade bed, Aya's room looked as if no one even lived there. Nothing was on the floor. Nothing was out of place. There were no pictures or personal items. As he looked around, Yohji suddenly thought that, if he looked into Aya's closet, he would find the red-head's clothing neatly arranged by color and type --- shirts all together, pants all hung in the same part of the closet, shoes all placed in pairs on shoe racks. The bed was perfectly made, and it was obvious no one had slept in it that night. It looked as if no one had ever slept there. The blonde assassin fought against the sudden, irresistible impulse to run into the room and rumple the sheets on the bed, throw clothes and shoes on the floor, and, maybe, even knock over the lamp.

"That's not right," Yohji muttered as he backed out of the room and clicked the door closed behind him. "No one should have to live in a place that's that neat. He's just not human."

He was still grumbling under his breath about Aya's horrible, inhuman housekeeping habits as he headed down the stairs and into the kitchen to call Manx. He didn't bother checking Omi's room. No matter how badly he wanted to peek into the younger blonde's room and find him curled up in bed, buried under his covers like a small child, Yohji knew it would be a waste of time and energy. The boy wouldn't be there. Yohji's mind whirled with the meaning behind Aya's absence. He wanted to believe Aya had just forgotten to call in, that, maybe, he and Omi had stopped off somewhere after staking out the club that night, that they were just delayed. But, in his heart, he knew it wasn't true. It couldn't be true. Aya was reliable and dependable to a fault. He would never forget to call in. He would never get sidetracked on the way home. Those were the kinds of things Yohji did, not Aya. No, if Aya wasn't home, it could only mean the worst. Something had happened to them.

* * *

Ken tripped and stumbled over the last two steps as he descended the stairs and made his way into the kitchen. He yawned and rubbed his hands over his face and through his hair, attempting to dispel the sleepy, muzzy feeling that had taken up residence in his brain overnight. Although he felt guilty over it, he had been relieved at not having to stake out the club last night. Almost a week's worth of nights stuck in a car with Yohji, suffering through the tall blonde's chain smoking and stories of conquest, hadn't been to his liking. Both those activities were, in Ken's opinion, things you should only do in large, open spaces, and the car's cramped confines had set his nerves on edge until his teeth itched and he was more than ready to kill anything and anyone that crossed his path --- just so long as it got him out of one more night in the car with Yohji. He liked the guy and everything. In fact, he was fond of Yohji, and considered the man a good and close friend. He just didn't like him enough to spend one more second trapped in a car with him. He didn't like anyone that much. Except, for, maybe, Omi. The young blonde was his best friend, and Ken tended to spend most of his free time with him. But, he was sure even Omi would wear on his nerves after the first couple of nights. Still, it would have been better than Yohji. About two hours into their first night of stake-out duty, he was already heartily sick of the chain-smoking ladies' man.

Still, as much as being confined with Yohji had set his nerves on edge, Ken figured it had to be better than working the club with Aya. The red-haired swordsman was such a cold-fish prick, always acting like he knew it all, always looking at everyone with that angry, sullen, disapproving glare, never taking the time to try and get to know the rest of them, never trying to fit in. That guy didn't have to do anything except breathe to piss Ken off, and he had been more than feeling sorry for Omi because the kid had, in his opinion, drawn the short stick on this one. Oddly enough, though, on the occasions when he'd said as much to Omi, the young blonde had gotten angry and defensive of Aya. He had even told Ken he just didn't know what he was talking about. Ken had been shocked as hell at the reaction, and he just hoped it didn't mean Omi, like Yohji, had joined the Aya Fujimiya fan club. That would mean he was the only Aya-hater left in the group, and, if there was anything Ken hated more than Aya, it was being the odd man out in any situation. He was a joiner, a player always in search of a team. It was what had made him a good athlete. At any rate, all thoughts of Aya and Yohji aside, being relieved of surveillance duty last night had given him the chance to catch up on some much-needed sleep.

During the past week, he and Omi had both been exhausted, and he hadn't seen very much of the kid. He found that he missed Omi's cheerful presence and willing conversation, and he had arisen early in the hopes of catching up to the younger blonde, who was normally the first one up, before Omi headed off to school.

As he neared his destination, he thought he could hear Yohji's voice coming from the kitchen, and he checked his watch, frowning in confusion. He knew the older man had gone out last night, but he'd heard Yohji come back home a few hours ago. Yohji was always the last one up. Even when he worked a morning shift in the shop, which wasn't often, he didn't get up before ten --- and Ken should know, having been stuck working the store alone for two hours every morning for the past week.

"It's only five," Ken muttered. "The sun isn't even out yet. What's he doing up already?"

"Yeah. OK," Yohji said, ending his conversation with Manx just as Ken entered the room.

The tall blonde stared at the handset for a moment and then replaced it on its cradle, turning to face the confused ex-goalie, who was standing in the kitchen doorway, staring at him. Ken was still in the clothes he slept in --- a faded, torn t-shirt and a pair of gray sweatpants, which had a rip on one knee. He was barefoot, and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he lifted first his right foot and then his left, in order to avoid the cold linoleum floor. His hair was tangled and mussed, sticking out at odd angles all over his head, and he rubbed at his eyes.

"What the hell are you staring at?" Yohji snapped.

Ken shrugged and moved toward the refrigerator, ignoring Yohji's comment and the angry, threatening tone behind it. The older man was always in a bad mood when he had to get up early --- even when "early" was ten A.M. At five, he was downright unbearable, and Ken refused to rise to the bait. He'd had a good night's sleep and was in a good mood because he hadn't had to sit in the car with Yohji all night long. He refused to let the older man ruin that.

"You," he said, as he opened the fridge, shuffled the contents around a bit, and pulled out a bottle of Gatorade, popping off the top as he slid it from its shelf.

He took a huge swig before turning away from the fridge to, once again, look at Yohji. The blonde assassin looked irritable and frazzled. He had pulled his hair back into a ponytail, but strands were sticking out all around his face. He looked pale and tired, which, in Ken's opinion, made sense, considering the blonde had only come home, maybe, three hours earlier. He was dressed only in his boxers and socks, as if he'd made a hasty dash from his room to the kitchen. Despite his general state of undress, the tall assassin had managed to grab his sunglasses and place them on his face, although they were slightly askew, and Ken noticed the older man's ever-present pack of smokes and lighter clenched in one fist.

"So?" Yohji asked, in that same, irritable, snippy tone. "What's so damn strange about a man using the telephone in his own house?"

Ken took another drink of Gatorade and replied, emphasizing his words with another shoulder shrug, "Nothing, except when it's you … at five in the morning … when the sun isn't even up yet … and in your underwear … and sunglasses. You going to open the shop dressed like that? It might actually bring in more girls than usual."

Yohji shook his head and straightened his sunglasses as he brushed past Ken to retreat up the stairs to his room. Ken was always cheerful and talkative in the mornings --- in short, a dyed-in-the-wool morning person. If there was one thing a guy like Yohji hated more than being awakened by a phone call at four A.M., it was dealing with a stupidly cheerful morning person. The tall blonde fought off the almost irresistible urge to punch Ken in the face as he started up the stairs.

"You're a fine one to talk about appearances," he said, pointing at Ken's torn t-shirt and sweats. He reached toward the ceiling, stretching the aching muscles in his back, before continuing, "Look. It's too damn early, and I'm not in any mood to put up with your cheerful, happy, morning person shit. Shop's closed today. Finish your breakfast and get dressed." He paused and looked at Ken, who had stopped drinking the Gatorade and was staring at him, and sighed. "Forget that. Just get dressed. You can drink your breakfast in the car." He continued up the stairs, lighting a cigarette as he went, and muttering, "Who the hell drinks Gatorade for breakfast, anyhow? No wonder you're such a fucking moron. It's gotta be all that damn sugar. Why can't you just smoke in the morning, like normal people?"

"Hey!" Ken called out after Yohji's retreating form. "What the hell's going on? Where are we going? Why aren't we open today?"

Yohji paused on the top step when he heard the ex-goalie's voice ring out after him. "Aya and Omi didn't come home last night," he replied before turning the corner and disappearing into the darkness of the upstairs hallway.

* * *

They drove through the city's dark, deserted streets in stony silence, neither of them in any mood for conversation. They were too caught up in their own thoughts, held prisoner by the streams and torrents of "what ifs?" whirling around their brains. What if Aya and Omi are hurt? What if they're dead? What if we never find them? What if Kritiker refuses to look for them? And, the worst one yet: What if we could have prevented this?

They had both learned, long ago, that it didn't do any good to torture yourself with "maybe" and "might-have-been". When you lived as they did --- hunters of dark beasts constantly on the prowl for more prey --- life was too short and too uncertain to get bogged down in the quagmire of could-have, should-have, or would-have. They knew better than to look back and rehash things that were already done. You couldn't change the past. Who could know that better than the members of Weiss? But, you could live in the moment and do your damn best to change the future, to shape it into what you wanted, no matter how hard Fate seemed to work against you.

Still, when the shit hit the fan, when it was one of yours that was missing --- someone you lived and worked with, someone you cared about, someone who had become your brother without you even realizing it --- it was impossible to keep your mind from chasing down the never-ending rabbit holes of "what if". They might be Weiss, but they were still mostly human. And, in the end, human nature tends to win out, every time.

Ken couldn't take it any more. The tense, worried silence; the way Yohji's hands gripped the steering wheel tightly enough to make his knuckles gleam white in the murky, early morning half light; the way the normally gregarious, jovial blonde had withdrawn and remained grimly, silently fixated on the road in front of them; the way his own heart had been pounding and hammering away in his chest since learning of Omi's disappearance; even the accusations and recriminations banging away at his sanity, asking _"why didn't I stop this?" … "why did I let Omi go?" … "why wasn't I there?" … "why couldn't I protect him?"_ suddenly became too much to bear. The weight of it all came crashing in on him, a huge, oppressive, beastly-predatory _**thing**_ that he had to shake off if he wanted to stay alive. He had to break the silence. He knew doing so would lead to an altercation --- perhaps physical, perhaps verbal, perhaps both --- with Yohji, but he didn't care. He more than didn't care. He was pissed --- pissed at Aya, for letting Omi get taken, pissed at the sick bastard who had grabbed his friend, pissed at Yohji, for being the one to tell him Omi was gone, but, mostly, pissed at himself for not being there when his friend had needed him --- and he wanted to fight with someone. He needed to fight with someone, and Yohji was the only one here.

Ken gave Yohji a sideways, slanted-eye glare as he drained the last ounce of Gatorade from the bottle he'd removed from the refrigerator that morning. Had it really only been that morning? Just an hour or so ago? Somehow, it seemed as if a whole lifetime had passed. Still glaring surreptitiously at the tall blonde in the driver's seat, Ken belched. He struggled to hide the ghost of a smile that played across his lips when Yohji turned slightly and gave him an angry, piercing glare. Good old Yohji. He could always count on him to take the bait and rise to the occasion.

"What?!" Ken snapped as he placed the cap back on the bottle.

Yohji didn't reply at first. He just shook his head, a distracted, lost gesture, and turned his attention back toward the road. Ken frowned. Obviously, he was going to have to push a few more buttons.

"That's … disgusting," Yohji muttered, half under his breath, eyes still glued to the dark stretch of street unfolding in the car's headlights. "Just … disgusting."

Ken turned to stare at his blonde companion. The sun hadn't come up yet, and, in the car's dark interior, he could see the red-orange glow of Yohji's cigarette bouncing up and down in the air as he spoke, reflecting off the older man's sunglasses. That idiot. The tall blonde did almost everything in those damn sunglasses. He probably even showered and slept in them, not that Ken particularly wanted or needed confirmation of that. Ken shook his head. He and Yohji had been together for a long time now --- at least a year, maybe two. He had become so accustomed to seeing the older man in the dark glasses that a Yohji without sunglasses perched somewhere on his face seemed almost naked, somehow. Still, he couldn't help but wonder how the chain smoking idiot could see well enough to drive through the murky gray of early morning.

Suddenly, Ken noticed --- **_really_** noticed, for the first time that night --- the way Yohji's mouth was set in a tense, grim line, the way his hands clutched the steering wheel, holding on for dear life, the man's distracted silence. And, he realized Yohji was just as worried as he was. Maybe even more --- who was he to judge? All the fight went out of him. He was still pissed. He just couldn't take it out on Yohji.

Ken frowned, irritated at no longer being able to vent his anger and frustration in clear conscience. After a few silent moments, he decided he'd take it out on Aya, once they managed to recover their two missing teammates. Yohji was his friend, almost like a brother to him. He had come to need Yohji in his life, and he decided he didn't want to isolate the older man by throwing a temper tantrum right now. Besides, he loved Yohji --- loved him like the family and life he'd lost so long ago when he'd joined Weiss. Yohji and Omi, they were his family. They had become that important to him, somehow. No. He couldn't torture Yohji --- not when the other man was in the exact same boat as he was. That would just be cruel, and Ken Hidaka was not cruel. Stubborn, hard-headed, quick-tempered --- maybe --- but not cruel.

But, Aya was different. Aya hadn't been with them very long, and he went out of his way to make sure no one liked him. Ken was more than happy to oblige the redhead in that respect. He didn't like the man, had hated him from the first moment he'd laid eyes on him --- wrapped in Yohji's wire, with Birman's gun at his temple, and, yet, still refusing to give in, still refusing to admit defeat. Like he had any choice in the matter. Like he was any better than any of the rest of them. Like he was doing them some kind of fucking favor by joining Weiss. Well, this time, Aya had fucked up. Ken was sure of it. Aya had fucked the mission, and Omi had paid for it. And, when they got the two of them back, Ken was going to make sure Aya regretted whatever it was he had done.

The thought that Aya might have had nothing to do with the situation never entered his mind. Neither did the thought that he and Yohji were just as much to blame for this mess as anyone else. Perhaps, at one time since hearing the news of Omi's disappearance, those ideas had chased their way through Ken's brain, but, once he fixated his anger on Aya, they fled, completely and utterly forgotten. To think those thoughts would be rational, and, right now, Ken was not about being rational. He was all about being pissed and seeking a likely and, in his mind, worthy target for his anger. Maybe it didn't make any sense, but it was the way things worked. Ken belched again, satisfied in finally finding someone worthy of the ass kicking he was itching to ditch out. He couldn't help but smile when Yohji groaned in response to the squelchy, gastro-intestinal sound, and he tossed the empty Gatorade bottle into the back seat.

"You get that shit on my seats, I swear I'll beat the ever-loving crap outta you when we got home," Yohji snapped.

Ken stared at the tall blonde. Ten seconds earlier, he would have been relieved, maybe even grateful, at Yohji's statement, which indicated the older man had taken the bait he had so generously laid. Ten seconds earlier, Ken had wanted a fight, with anyone --- and had wanted it badly. But, not now. Now, the ex-goalie couldn't see his way clear to fighting with Yohji, not when he had realized how worried the tall playboy was, not when he had reminded himself of how much Yohji meant to him, not when he had remembered Yohji and Omi were the only family he had … and, if Omi really was gone, he only had Yohji.

Ken sighed. "Look," he said, struggling to keep his voice neutral and non-threatening. He didn't want to do or say anything that might egg Yohji on. "Enough, already. I'm worried, too, so don't take your frustration out on me. I don't want to fight with you."

Yohji pulled his eyes from the road to give Ken a good, long, searching look. The jock could read the surprise, shock, and confusion in the older man's green eyes, even concealed, as they were, behind the dark lenses. He knew he was to blame. He'd certainly sent a mixed message, and he didn't blame Yohji for thinking he was almost expected to rise to the occasion and, at the very least, engage in a verbal battle. It was their routine, to a certain extent --- sort of a way he and the tall blonde had developed to let off steam. But, this time, Ken wanted to reserve all his anger for when the found Omi. He wanted to hold it inside so that he could pour it out and heap it up on the head of the one person he felt was most deserving of it --- even if he didn't exactly know why he felt that way.

After a few moments, Yohji looked back to the road and mumbled, his tone contrite and almost embarrassed, "So … Sorry."

Ken shrugged and laid his hand against the other man's arm. "It's okay, Yohji. I … I kind of started it." He turned away to look out the passenger-side window. "How much longer till we get there? Sun's starting to come up."

"Just in time," Yohji nodded. "We're almost there."

Ken rolled the window down and took a deep breath of fresh morning air, his irrational need to blame someone still boiling in his mind, combining with the hatred for the quiet, red-haired swordsman that had become so ingrained it almost felt like second nature now. "That stupid shit, Aya," he hissed, jumping at the sound of his own voice. He hadn't expected to say it out loud, but, now that he had started, he found he couldn't stop. He leaned forward, just enough to put one elbow outside the window and feel the morning air slap his face and tug chilly fingers through his tangled hair. "He probably just ditched Omi or something. If he lets anything happen to Omi, I swear I'll kill him with my bare hands. When we find them, I'm gonna beat the shit outta him for this."

Yohji spared a glance from the road to look over at Ken. He knew Ken was angry. He knew the ex-goalie felt impotent, bound by the situation that had been dealt them. He could understand those feelings, since they mirrored his own. He knew the brunette was spoiling for a fight, for a way to release those pent-up emotions and feel, once again, like he was in control of the situation, in control of his life. He could understand that, too. He knew Ken and Aya didn't get along, but he was surprised at the anger and hatred he heard in the younger man's voice. That was something he didn't understand. Aya and Omi were both gone. That Ken would choose to lay everything --- all his anger, all his fear, all his frustration, all the recrimination and blame that had to be running through that thick head --- at the feet of someone who wasn't even here to defend himself … who might not even be alive, Yohji couldn't understand. He'd never realized Ken's feelings about Aya ran this deeply, and he couldn't help but wonder if they truly did. True, Ken disliked Aya, but active hatred --- maybe that was just the pain and frustration of their situation talking.

Yohji stared, open-mouthed and shocked, at Ken for the span of, maybe, three heartbeats, before looking away, back to the road, and asking, "What … the hell … are you talking about?"

Ken shook his head, and shrugged, giving no other indication he'd even heard Yohji's question. He never turned his attention from the passing scenery, but he muttered, just loudly enough for Yohji to hear, "That fucking bastard. This had to be his fault. I just know it. You don't see it … don't see the way he is, but I do. He's a fucking prima dona … always doing everything on his own, taking everything on by himself … just so he can show off or something, just so he can show he's better than the rest of us. But, he fucked up this time. He fucked up, got caught, and dragged Omi in with him. I really don't give a shit what happens to him … I don't care if we never find that cold fucking bastard, but if he gets Omi killed … if he lets anything happen to Omi … I swear, I'll kill him. I'll kill him with my bare hands, and I'll enjoy doing it, too."

Yohji was vaguely aware he'd stopped looking at the road sometime around the middle of Ken's tirade. He couldn't tear his eyes off the man sitting next to him, couldn't pull his attention away from the venom and hatred he heard in the ex-goalie's words. Screw the road. If anyone got in their path this morning, they were damn well just going to have to get themselves out before Yohji ran them down. He didn't have time or attention to spare for safe driving. He was too busy staring in shock at his teammate, a man he had called friend and brother, but whom, now, thanks to Ken's hateful, vicious, words and the venom he heard in the brunette's voice, he barely even recognized.

Yohji tried to remain calm. He tried to let Ken's words slide off his back, telling himself the ex-goalie didn't mean it; they were something said in the heat of the moment, in the midst of whirling, out of control fear and emotions; they didn't mean anything. He didn't want to fight with Ken. He, most emphatically, **_did not_** want to fight with Ken. Fighting with Ken wouldn't help anyone. It wouldn't get them any closer to finding Aya and Omi. He felt the anger rising within him, and he tried to choke it down by reminding himself that Omi was Ken's best friend. The ex-goalie and their youngest blonde teammate did almost everything together. Establishing ties to other people --- deep, lasting, emotional ties --- wasn't something people like them took for granted. It was hard enough to find people you cared so much about when you lived a "normal" life. When you were Weiss … well, if you managed to form those kinds of ties, you hung on for dear life. So, Yohji gripped the wheel a bit tighter, bit the inside of his jaw, and reminded himself it was only natural for Ken to go a little over the edge, considering Omi was missing, and considering they knew nothing at this point --- less than nothing, really.

"You … you can't mean that," Yohji managed to choke out, once he got his anger somewhat under control. Even so, his voice shook with the emotion. "Don't forget, there are two people missing here. We're all Weiss. We look after our own."

Ken was either too stupid to notice Yohji's shaking voice and tight-lipped expression, or, more likely, he was just too damn mad to care. He shrugged again in response, a gesture that was beginning to grate on Yohji's nerves, and said, in a sullen, barely audible voice, "You … Me … Omi. We're Weiss. But, not Aya. Aya is nothing … not one of us."

Yohji couldn't hold it back any longer. The screeching throb of the vein in his forehead and the angry hammering of his heart told him he and Ken were going to have things out … and right now. He could understand Ken being upset, considering the jock's feelings toward Omi. They were friends. Brothers. More than brothers, since their bonds were forged in blood. But, what Omi was to Ken, Aya was to Yohji. He didn't know how it had happened, hadn't even been aware it **_had_** happened until Manx's call this morning had told him about Aya's disappearance and started slowly fraying his nerves. But, somehow, during the past month or so, Aya had opened up to him, let the cold, emotionless mask slip just a fraction, and Yohji had been shocked to find a kindred spirit in the redhead. They were both searching for something they had lost, something precious, and they both were learning to live with the cruel realization they would never find it. Yohji couldn't stand to hear Ken say such cruel things, couldn't stand to hear the venom and hatred in the ex-goalie's voice --- not when Aya was missing, and, probably, dead.

Luckily, they had reached their destination by the time Yohji blew. He turned the car into the Crazy Geisha's parking lot with a savage twist of the steering wheel, at the same time slamming on the brakes. The car careened crazily, coming close to tilting on two wheels, before it swerved around in a complete circle and came to rest, in a fog of smoke, an angry screech of tires, and the smell of burning rubber. At almost the same instant he stopped the car, he whirled on Ken with blinding speed and catlike grace fueled by the anger he'd failed to hold in check. Ken was too startled to do more than stare, open-mouthed, at Yohji as the tall blonde grabbed the front of his shirt, fisting his hands in it and jerking Ken forward, out of his seat, until their faces were only inches apart and only the gear shift separated them.

"You're a fucking idiot," he snarled, emphasizing his words by shaking the ex-goalie. "I don't get it. I don't fucking get it with you. You open your mouth, and I expect to hear words … actual words that make sense, and all that comes out is some fucking, idiotic, dribble. I can understand you're scared and upset. I can understand it, because I feel the same way. It's the only damn thing keeping me from kicking your ass right here, right now. But, you don't know what the fuck you're saying. You don't know him."

"Yeah, right," Ken responded in a sarcastic voice. He wasn't intimidated by Yohji's threatening manner, and he refused to let go of the anger and resentment he harbored against Aya. "Like you do."

Yohji's anger melted. Suddenly, he was drained, used up, the events of the morning, the shock of Manx's phone call, and the weight of Ken's hatred all tumbling down on him at once. He shook his head and released the brunette's shirt, mumbling, "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

Yohji sighed and turned to look across the parking lot, which was empty, except for two cars. Aya's Porsche was parked at the opposite end, in the farthest spot from the club's entrance. The other car, a small, blue, four-door sedan, was, likewise, parked in what would have been a deserted spot, even if the lot had been full, just a short distance away from Aya's car. Still shaking his head, Yohji managed to calm his trembling hands long enough to re-start Seven and drive from the entrance to a spot near the Porsche, where he stopped.

As he reached for the door handle, he turned back toward Ken. The ex-goalie was still staring at him, a mixture of shock and wary anger written across his handsome features. "Maybe," Yohji said, his voice softer now that the heat of his anger had passed, "Maybe … you … hate Aya. I don't know. I hope that's not true, but, if it is … that's your issue to work out. But, now's not the time to decide. Right now, you're worried, scared, and pissed. You think you're pissed at Aya, but, really, you're not. You're really pissed at yourself, because you weren't there. I know … because … because I feel the same way. We … you and me … we only have ourselves to blame for whatever happened … for anything that happens to them. We were the ones whining and bitching about having to sit in the fucking car all week, watching their backs. Aya only told us they didn't need back up because he was sick and tired of hearing it. If … if we'd been there … maybe … they'd be at home now, instead of missing."

He paused, leaning back in his seat and staring up at the sky, which was still slightly pink with the sunrise, before pulling his sunglasses off and rubbing his hands over his face with a loud, heavy sigh. He replaced them on his face as he straightened in his seat and, again, reached for the door handle, pausing long enough to spear Ken with one last, baleful glare as he jerked his thumb over his shoulder to indicate Aya's abandoned car, and said, his voice barely a whisper, "You and me … we're the only fuck-ups in this outfit. Aya … that guy never fucked up in his whole life. I don't think he'd even know how. He certainly never fucked up a mission like this. If anything happens to Omi … if Omi gets hurt …or worse … it won't be because he _**let**_ it happen. It'll be because Aya's already dead. No matter what you think of him personally, you know that's true." For a moment, it looked like he was going to say something more, but, instead, Yohji shook his head and exited the car without another word.

Ken slumped in his seat, staring at the dashboard. Yohji was right. No matter how he felt about Aya, he blamed himself more than anyone else. He didn't want to admit that. It was easier to stay mad at Aya, easier to hate the quiet man, than to face his own culpability in this mess. After a few moments, he followed Yohji out into the early morning chill, feeling foolish and ashamed.

They inspected Aya's car first. It didn't take long. Yohji half-heartedly hoped they would find one or both of their friends slumped against the car, or asleep inside it. But, there was nothing in or near the Porsche. Yohji had had the presence of mind to bring Aya's extra set of keys, and he and Ken scoured the car's interior, checking under the seats, in the glove compartment, and, even, in the trunk. Then, they did a detailed examination of the vehicle's exterior, running their hands over the Porsche's sleek body and spotlessly clean paint job, searching, hoping, praying for some mark, some nick, some little clue regarding their teammates' disappearance. They didn't find anything, which left the only other car in the lot.

"Well," Yohji said, sighing and straightening up to run a hand through his hair, shaking a few strands out of his low, loose ponytail, "There's nothing here." He shrugged and continued, "I guess we should go ahead and look at the other car before we break into the club."

Ken nodded in response.

As soon as they approached the other car, Yohji's stomach twisted into a cold, hard knot, his heart thudded brutally against his ribs, and he could hear the blood roaring through his ears. For a moment or two, he felt dizzy, and he couldn't hear anything other than the dull, throbbing roar. He hadn't eaten anything that morning, but, all the same, his stomach lurched, threatening to disgorge nonexistent contents.

There was blood everywhere --- splattered along the car's passenger side and rear fender, a fairly sizeable pool next to and under the vehicle, and a smaller puddle beside the rear tire, near where he stood. He forced his mind to let go of the fear long enough to think rationally about what he saw. The splatter pattern was familiar. He'd seen it enough times during the past eight or nine months to know Aya had managed to get the kill before he and Omi were grabbed. After assuring himself of their target's demise, Yohji ignored the splatters and larger pool of blood and turned his attention to the smaller puddle. He guessed that it, unlike the bulk of red goo, probably hadn't come from their target. He squatted on his heels and frowned as he retrieved a large object from the car's shadow. He hadn't noticed it until he got closer, and he held it up so that the early morning light glinted off of it.

"Aya's sword," he said, his voice somber.

He looked up at Ken, who was avoiding the larger spatters of red and reaching under the car for something. The ex-goalie twisted around at Yohji's statement, looking over his shoulder. He was unable to hide the shock that raced across his face and settled in his eyes at the sight of their quiet teammate's weapon, covered in blood and glinting dully in the weak morning light.

The tall blonde nodded in agreement at the shock on Ken's face and the unspoken question in his eyes. "Yeah," he said, his voice soft, "Now we know for sure they're in trouble. Blood all over the damn place. And this." He held up the sword to emphasize his words. "Aya wouldn't leave this behind … not ever … not if … not if he could help it." He paused, his attention riveted on a small object, which lay just in the bumper's shadow. It was right next to his foot, and he'd almost stepped on it. "Shit. Communicator," he said, bending down to retrieve the item. He held it up and squinted as he inspected it in the poor light, "Busted all to hell, too."

Ken nodded. He grunted as he stretched his arm as far as possible, still balancing on his toes to avoid soiling his clothes by falling in the blood, and finally managed to retrieve the object of his attention from underneath the car. He sat down on the ground and held the tiny item up to the light, squinting against the sun's rays as he examined it. "Another communicator. Probably Omi's."

"Well," Yohji said. He leaned Aya's sword against the rear fender before he stood and dropped the redhead's comm., grinding it under his boot as he sighed and ran shaking fingers through his tangled hair. He managed to pull it loose from its elastic tie and let it hang free, shoving the tie in his back pocket as he looked around, gathering his thoughts. "From this," he finally said, gesturing at the mess surrounding them, "Definitely looks like it went down out here. Don't see much point in risking being discovered by breaking into the club to look around. We wouldn't find anything."

Ken's only response was a grunt of assent as the ex-goalie, likewise, rose to his feet and ground Omi's comm. to dust under his shoe.

Yohji stared at Ken for a few long minutes. The ex-goalie was pale and shaken by what they had found, his earlier hatred and anger toward Aya apparently forgotten. Yohji wondered. He had known Ken and Aya didn't get along. Neither of them had made that a secret, but he hadn't realized the jock's feelings ran so deeply. Yohji was pretty sure the blood around the sword was Aya's, and he couldn't help but feel a new surge of anger toward Ken as he stared at the ex-goalie and wondered if Ken's pale face, trembling hands, and over-all shaken demeanor took into account there were _**two**_ teammates missing under less than ideal circumstances. Or, was his worry, as always, for Omi alone. Yohji shook his head irritably as he drew his mind from that train of thought. Now wasn't the time. Ken had some issues; that much was certain. He was going to have to come to terms with them, was going to have to come to terms with Aya, if Weiss was to survive. But, for now, Yohji couldn't spare the time to work through that problem. For now, they had to focus all their attention on getting Aya and Omi back, or, heaven forbid, on finding their bodies and laying them to rest.

When Ken turned his attention toward Yohji, finally aware the tall blonde was staring at him, Yohji glanced away, unwilling to start another conflict with the ex-goalie right now. To cover his actions, the tall blonde pulled a switchblade out of his pocket, pushing the button that would flick the blade out and into place. Grunting, he ignored Ken and knelt down to scrape some of the blood near his feet onto the blade. With that task accomplished, he retrieved Aya's sword and made his way back to the Porsche. Ken followed him. Yohji was almost stupidly grateful for the ex-goalie's silence. As mad as he still was at Ken, it wouldn't have taken much to push him over the edge and set him at the brunette's throat. At the moment, even the sound of the younger man's voice would have been enough. Probably, Ken felt the same way, hence his decision to avoid talking. A physical altercation right now wouldn't do anyone any good, and would only take the chance of drawing unneeded, unwanted attention toward them.

As he slid into the driver's seat, Yohji released a panel in the Porsche's dashboard. It opened, and a small, compact computer slid out, the screen popping up as soon as it had cleared the dashboard's confines. Yohji couldn't help but smile as he remembered how Kritiker had wanted to install a computer in his car, too. He had, of course, refused. Kritiker already had too much of a hold on their lives. It wasn't like he could refuse missions, but Yohji made it his mission to refuse any request he possibly could, just to be a pain in the ass. It was the least he could do. Besides, he loved his car. He couldn't stand the thought of it in some bungling Kritiker mechanic's hands. Aya hadn't been sold on the idea, either. He loved his car just as much as Yohji loved Seven. Still, he had been pushed into agreeing because of Yohji's refusal, and because Manx had his sister's care to hold over his head. Kritiker used the cards it had, and played them, ruthlessly, whenever they needed an advantage. Yohji had felt guilty about the whole thing, but it hadn't kept him from teasing Aya mercilessly about his car being a "techno-mobile". Aya might have been against the idea, but, true to his obstinate nature, he had defended the computer and his "decision" to allow its installation against Yohji's teasing by shrugging and saying, in that soft, calm voice so few others ever heard, that it wasn't a bad idea, and the computer would probably come in quite handy out in the field.

'Come in handy, indeed,' Yohji thought as he punched in the password that would activate the system.

He called up the necessary program and deposited the blood sample on a little plate that slid out of the computer's side. After a few seconds, the machine beeped, and analysis results blinked onto the screen.

"The blood around the sword is Aya's," Yohji said, his voice barely a whisper. Ken had been leaning over his shoulder, also staring at the monitor, but Yohji wasn't even sure his words had been loud enough to carry the short distance to the younger man's ear. The tall blonde sat silently for a moment, staring into nothing, and then, in a sudden fit of rage, began to beat the steering wheel, screaming, "SHIT! SHIT! SHIT!" Once his anger was somewhat spent, he leaned forward and rested his head against the wheel. "Too much blood," he muttered, "There's just too much blood. He's dead. Aya's fucking dead. He has to be. No one could survive that. This … it's all my fault. Shit!"

He jumped when he felt Ken's hand squeeze his shoulder. The ex-goalie leaned forward and said, "Stop, Yohji. Stop it. There's no time for this. Besides, you don't know that's true. Aya's one tough son-of-a-bitch. He can survive anything. What's important now is finding them."

Yohji nodded. He was numbed by what they had found, but the irony of hearing Ken, of all people, defend Aya and speak so confidently of the redhead's survival wasn't lost on him. He thought he probably shouldn't believe Ken. The jock couldn't mean it --- not after what he'd said and the way he'd acted this morning, not after finally revealing his true feelings, which he'd kept hidden until today. Still, much as he hated it, Yohji felt comforted by Ken's words and confident tone of voice. He felt like he was betraying Aya by accepting comfort and assurance from someone who, not even an hour before, had professed such a deep, vehement, and undying hatred for the quiet man.

Yohji took a couple of deep breaths to regain control of his emotions. Still cursing himself for being a traitor to his quiet friend, he handed his car keys to Ken and said, "You drive my car, and I'll take Aya's. He'll kill me if I let you drive his Porsche."


	4. Chapter 4

Omi came awake to a chaotic symphony of unfamiliar sounds --- metal walls creaking and groaning as they struggled against the slightest breeze, the muffled honking and tire screeches of distant traffic, and a bit closer, but still muffled, the steady, dull, throbbing hum of heavy construction equipment. He felt confused and disoriented, and he kept his eyes tightly shut, as the unfamiliar sounds washed over him. He had expected, upon awakening, to hear the noises he always heard. Familiar sounds that said "home" to him: Ken bouncing his soccer ball off the walls or clinking dishes in the kitchen; the muted drone of the television, which Ken and Yohji insisted always stay on --- no one ever really paid attention to what was showing, but the chain-smoking blonde and the ex-goalie hated silence; Aya yelling at Yohji, or, more likely Ken, about one thing or another; or, on rare occasions, the sound of playful bickering between the swordsman and Yohji. Those were the noises that drifted up to Omi's room on the rare mornings when he wasn't the first in the house to wake, but, the sounds he heard now --- screeching metal, like fingernails on a blackboard, the low, distant hum and throb of traffic and construction --- were completely foreign. He must not be at home, then. So, where was he?

Part of his mind didn't care. Wherever it was might be unfamiliar and noisy, but he was warm and felt fairly safe. And, he was tired --- so damn tired it felt as if his brain and the insides of his eyelids had been stuffed with cotton. Part of his mind wanted to forget about everything, turn over, and retreat into the safe blackness of knowing, feeling, and hearing nothing. But, another part of his mind --- the part where Bombay prowled --- screamed at him for a fool. That part told him, with no uncertainty, if he wasn't home, and he didn't know where he was, he couldn't possibly be safe. Omi tried to ignore the little voice screeching danger inside his head, but Bombay forced his eyes open.

'I'm in a … cave?' was his first thought, as his muzzy, drug-addled brain struggled to come to terms with the dimly lit vastness he felt around him.

No, he realized, as he managed to fight off the fuzziness enough to take a good look around. Not a cave, but a huge, cavernous room … a warehouse --- probably the next best thing to a cave in the city. He wasn't sure he was still in Tokyo, but, wherever he was, he knew it was a city of some sort. The traffic and construction noises told him that much. He felt the wall behind him shudder with a loud, metallic screech and wondered if it was windy outside. Probably not, he finally concluded. The wall screams and creaks were intermittent, and he'd been around enough warehouses to know they shuddered, creaked, and screamed in protest at even the slightest breeze.

As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Omi realized there was a row of small windows at the top of the wall behind him, maybe ten feet or more off the ground. Pale, weak sunlight filtered through their dirty panes, illuminating the space enough so that he could make out some vague shapes and dim colors before the shadows deepened at the other end of the room. There were crates everywhere --- stacks and stacks of them. There had to be hundreds, and those were just the ones he could see. He guessed there were more in other parts of the building. They loomed over him --- huge, dark, foreboding hulks, each one big enough to hold a car or two, stacked several feet in front of him, blocking his view of the rest of the warehouse. Omi craned his neck back, trying to see just how tall the stacks were, but had to give up because it made him dizzy and nauseous. He couldn't see how far up they went, anyhow, as they disappeared into the murky darkness a good distance above him. He guessed they went all the way to the ceiling, or very close to it. There was a clear space, about five or six feet in width, between him and the looming wall of crates, and, when he turned his head to look from one side to the other, he guessed it ran the entire length of the building. He couldn't see any boxes on either side of him, but the murky darkness swallowed the far ends of the warehouse. He supposed he could see almost half the building's length, before the shadows closed in. He squinted and, in the dim light, managed to make out a small break, kind of like a path, in the wooden wall facing him. He squinted harder and noticed a door in the distance. He could barely see it in the murky, gray half-light, but it looked like the only easy way in or out of the building.

Omi sighed and rubbed his hands over his face and through his tangled, matted hair. He tugged on the ends, hoping the pain might bring some clarity to his fuzzy mind. Waking up in a strange place wasn't ever a pleasant experience, and his rather cursory survey of his surroundings had done little to give him hope. He just wished he could think clearly. He couldn't seem to put two coherent thoughts together, and it was starting to frustrate the hell out of him. He had the feeling something was horribly, terribly wrong. Well, more "wrong" than waking up with a drug-induced hangover in a strange, creaky warehouse stacked full of crates large enough to hold an army of bodies, that is. It was right there, lurking in the fuzzy, muddled recesses of his brain, so close he felt like he could reach out and grab it. But, each time he tried, it skittered away from him, as if his fingers barely managed to brush against it.

"Okay, Omi. You're a trained assassin. You can certainly do a little thing like remember what happened before you lost all this time. Just start from the beginning," the boy muttered in an irritable tone, almost under his breath. Even so, his words bounced around the cavernous space and echoed back to him, a mocking taunt.

He sighed again and closed his eyes, leaning back against the wall behind him. He could feel its metallic coolness even through his jacket and shirt, and it felt good --- cold, almost damp, almost like freedom --- a welcome counterpart to the oppressive dustiness of the rest of this place. He forced his mind and body to relax, consciously letting go of the tension, anxiety, and fear his predicament had caused to well up inside him.

"The beginning," he muttered. "The beginning. Start at the beginning. … OK, I was at the club …with … Aya …"

His voice trailed off as an image popped into his mind: a surprised look flashing through blue-violet eyes before they went dead; Aya crumpling to the ground next to him, landing in a puddle of red. Suddenly, the pieces of memory snapped together to form one big, seamless, horrific picture, and Omi was unequivocally, irrevocably awake, the cobwebs chased from his addled mind by the memory of his teammate, his partner on this mission, falling to the ground beside him. Omi wasn't sure whether that was a good thing or not. On the one hand, he remembered and had a better understanding of his situation. On the other hand, he remembered and had a better understanding of his situation. It was a double-edged sword. He knew the memory of Aya falling, the image of that startled look in his eyes just before they went blank and slid closed, would haunt him for some time to come.

'Wait a minute …,' Omi thought, his brain still not quite working on all cylinders, despite the rude awakening that jolt of memory had given it, 'Aya …'

The boy bolted away from the wall, coming to his feet so quickly it made him dizzy, and he staggered to the side, close to falling, before he managed to steady himself by placing a hand against the cool metal. He ignored the wave of vertigo and the lurching in his stomach. He had to find Aya. His mind whirled. All he could see was Aya's head snapping back from the force of that blow, the startled, almost shocked look in his eyes --- all the more unusual considering the way the redhead guarded his emotions, the way Aya had fallen to the ground --- bonelessly, heavily, the way dead bodies fall. The images swam before his eyes until Omi wanted to scream. No. It couldn't be true. Aya couldn't be … he couldn't be dead. He had to be here. He had to be here.

'Please, God,' Omi thought, 'Please … please … don't let him be dead. Please … I … I don't want to be alone here.'

It was a selfish thing to think. He knew it, and he was ashamed. But, he didn't care. Right now, he wasn't an assassin; he wasn't Weiss; he wasn't Bombay. He was Omi. He was trapped in a dark, dusty, unfamiliar place, and he was scared. He didn't want to be alone. He really didn't want Aya to be dead, either. Despite his initial worries over the mission, he had grown fond of the quiet swordsman during the week they had spent working the club together. He even thought of the redhead as Weiss now, as a member of his surrogate family. He didn't want anything to happen to Aya. But, more than anything … selfish as it was … he didn't want to be alone.

"Aya!" he screamed, once he had managed to regain his balance and silence the tumult roiling in his brain. He pushed himself away from the wall and staggered out into the open space, out where he had a little more light. "Aya!" he called again, but there wasn't any answer except for his own voice, throwing the word back at him, mocking him with its echo.

Now that he was away from the wall, standing in the squares of weak light thrown on the concrete floor from the window panes high above, he saw a misshapen pile about three or four feet away from him, to his left. It was half in shadow, and looked almost like old, discarded clothing. But, Omi knew it wasn't old clothes. A shaft of light fell across it, illuminating specks of dust that floated through the air and giving him the briefest glimpse of red. Even without that, the boy had known the rumpled, misshapen pile was his partner. It was Aya.

Omi sprinted, half running, half stumbling as he struggled to keep his feet beneath him, the short distance to his teammate's side, his nausea and dizziness forgotten now, lost in the hammering of his heart, the panicked gasps of his breathing, and the pounding rush of blood in his ears. He slid to his knees next to the fallen man, and, as he got his first good look at Aya, his heart fell and his stomach clenched in horror and fear. It was a good thing he hadn't eaten anything in some time. If he had had anything in his stomach, he wouldn't have been able to hold onto it, and he didn't want to throw up. Being trapped in this musty, dusty room with the strong, sickly-sweet, coppery-metallic smell of fresh and drying blood was bad enough without adding the odor of stale puke to the mix.

Aya was so still. In the poor lighting, Omi couldn't tell, at first glance, whether the other man was breathing. He stared at Aya for a long time, reluctant --- scared, really --- to reach out and touch him. If he touched Aya, he might find the swordsman was dead, and that would mean he was alone. If Aya was dead, he was dead. It wasn't like touching him would make any difference in that respect, but, Omi felt like touching the man would make his worst fears come true. As long as he didn't touch Aya, he could believe the swordsman was alive. As long as he didn't lay hands on the man, he could believe he wasn't alone in here. It was irrational. He told himself it was irrational. Bombay knew it was foolish and irrational. But, Omi was afraid, and he didn't care. The boy strained against the murky, gray half-light until, finally, he saw the smallest, almost imperceptible, movement of Aya's body. He was breathing. He was alive. Omi breathed a sigh of relief.

The redhead was lying on his side, facing away from the young blonde, his hands tightly cuffed behind his back. Even in the dim light, Omi could see they were slightly bluish-purple, a sign the cuffs had long ago cut off their circulation. Twisted. Crumpled. Broken. Helpless. Fragile. They weren't words he normally would associate with his red-haired partner, but they were the words that popped, unbidden, into Omi's mind as he stared at Aya. He hadn't known the older man for long, but he had already decided, about ten minutes after meeting him, that he probably wouldn't ever think of the swordsman as anything but strong and invulnerable. Omi and the others had quickly learned a core of steel seemed to run through the quiet redhead's deceptively slight frame. He just hoped Aya's will to survive and stubborn streak were strong enough to get him through this.

Suddenly, the boy's mind seized upon a random snippet of memory. When he was around three or four, he had had a toy. What was it? Some kind of pull-toy … maybe a horse or a dog or something like that. Funny how he could remember how much he had loved that toy, but he couldn't recall what it had looked like. He had taken it everywhere with him, and he remembered he had even slept with it. He didn't remember his father, other than as a deep, angry, disembodied voice, but, one day, the man had taken that toy, in a fit of anger, and flung it against a wall. Omi could still remember how it had fallen to the floor to lie, broken, next to two big feet.

The young blonde shook his head slightly, dispelling the unwanted images from his mind. He didn't have many memories of his childhood before Persia had saved him, and almost none of them were happy. But, why would his mind seize on that memory, so painful in its clarity and the emotions it brought to the surface even after all these years?

'Never mind,' he thought, as he turned his attention back toward Aya, 'I think I know.'

Frowning, Omi did his best to shrug the memory off and turn his attention to the task at hand. He didn't want to check Aya over --- maybe because he was afraid of what he might find, maybe because he was afraid of being left alone here, maybe because he was afraid for Aya, too, or, maybe, because the surprise and shock he had seen pass through Aya's eyes was still all too vivid. He didn't know, and it didn't matter. He couldn't avoid it forever. Aya had made this entire mission and their safety his responsibility, and Omi knew he had let him. He had felt safe in that club, knowing Aya was there, had lulled himself into a false sense of security through the belief that everything would, naturally, be just fine because Aya was lurking in the background, ready to make everything okay. And, what had happened? Aya had been hurt … badly … because Omi had gotten careless. He didn't want to admit it, but he knew it was true. Omi knew he had approached the entire situation in a sloppy, hap-hazard manner. Aya's safety was his responsibility as much as his safety was Aya's, and Omi was ashamed he hadn't given it a second thought. That carelessness had led them to this, and, now, he had to do whatever he could to keep Aya alive and get them out of this mess.

Omi held his breath without even realizing it as he reached out with a shaking hand to grab Aya's shoulder and turn him onto his back. There was no resistance, and Omi settled the swordsman's head in his lap, feeling his stomach clench and lurch again --- with anger, this time ---as he got his first good look at the older man's injuries.

"Holy shit," Omi muttered, almost under his breath.

He didn't know why he whispered. Obviously, there wasn't anyone here, and Aya couldn't hear him. Still, he muttered the words in the kind of reverent half-tone people reserve for serious places, like churches and libraries. It was almost as if, by saying the words out loud, he'd make this whole nightmare come true, as if he might wake up and find out he really wasn't at home, over the Koneko, in his nice, warm, safe bed. It was stupid. He knew it was stupid, and, yet, he whispered.

Aya looked like something out of a horror movie or a carnival freak show. The right half of his face was a bloody, pulpy mess. The blood and dim, almost non-existent lighting conspired to keep Omi from determining the actual extent of his companion's injuries, but he was willing to bet, even without further examination, things were bad. One side of Aya's face was slightly misshapen, a bit flatter than the other side, as if it had been pushed up against something and mashed in a bit. Blood still seeped through a couple of deep gashes, one along the side of Aya's head, from his temple to his chin, and another, higher up, above his right eye. There was a lot of blood. It was dried and matted on Aya's skin and in his hair, where it was almost indistinguishable from the swordsman's crimson mane.

Omi mentally calculated, remembering that Aya had dropped to the ground in the parking lot in a small puddle of his own blood and noticing another pool here. He wasn't sure exactly how much blood there was in a human body. You'd think, in his line of work, that would be information he'd make a point of remembering, but he never could seem to recall how much someone could lose before they bled to death. Still, he was willing to bet Aya was teetering on that edge. There just seemed to be too much of the red stuff, although Omi tried to reassure himself by silently repeating that head wounds bled a lot, even if they weren't serious, that it didn't mean anything. If he said it enough times in his head, maybe he'd even start believing it.

The damaged side of Aya's face was swollen almost beyond recognition. His right eye was swollen shut, and there was a dark, bruise-like circle ringing the bottom of his left eye and snaking toward his nose, which seemed a bit out of place, as well. His jaw skewed a little too much to the left, indicating it was probably broken. All things considered, Omi figured there was a good chance Aya had a skull fracture. He'd be lucky to get away with nothing more than a broken nose, broken jaw, and, maybe, a smashed cheekbone.

Omi remembered how hard their attacker had hit Aya, how the older man's head had snapped around after the impact, how the board had made that sickening, hollow sound, the surprise, shock, and pain written in Aya's eyes before they had gone dead. The images floated through his mind, over and over. It was like watching some horrific movie that had gotten stuck in one spot, so that the film looped back on itself, forcing you to sit through a never-ending cycle of your worst fears come to life.

Omi shuddered at the thought, squeezing his eyes closed, as if he could shut the memories out that way. But, it was no use. It wasn't a movie. He couldn't just turn it off. It was part of him, and he knew he'd see those images, in one form or another, for the rest of his life --- however long … or short … that might be.

He needed to hear Aya, needed to hear the other man's voice, needed to see Aya awake. He didn't know why. He couldn't explain it. There's no explaining something that is totally and completely irrational, and Omi knew this was irrational. Yet, it was there --- this aching, burning **_need_**, gnawing at him like a living thing, refusing to let him go until he heard Aya's voice, until he saw the redhead awake. As if just seeing and hearing Aya would make everything all right. It was stupid, and Omi was ashamed. If he had any sense or compassion, he knew he'd leave Aya alone. Unconscious, at least he wasn't in any pain. But, still, the need was there, driving him, forcing him to ignore his conscience.

"Aya," Omi said, his voice barely a whisper, and, yet, somehow, still managing to echo and reverberate around the huge room. He paused, hoping for some reaction, some sign, but there was nothing.

Omi frowned. "Aya … come on, now," he whispered after a couple of moments, "You're not … you're not gonna leave me hanging out here all alone, right?" His fingers strayed to Aya's throat, acting almost of their own accord, even though his mind had seen the other man breathing. Right now, his fingers and brain didn't seem to be talking. He felt a pulse, faint, but steady, under his hand, and sighed in relief.

"Yeah," he said, still employing the now-familiar half-whispering tone that had become his preferred means of communication. "Yeah," he repeated, threading his fingers through Aya's hair, "If anyone could survive that, it's you." Impulsively, the need once again taking hold of him, he grabbed Aya's shoulders and shook the older man. "Come on, Aya," he hissed, his voice taking on a tense, fear-filled edge that made him cringe and feel ashamed for his weakness.

Omi waited, holding his breath for an eternity spanning several seconds, until, finally, his efforts were rewarded with a cough and a small, pathetic groan from the object of his attention. Omi let out the breath he'd been holding --- one long sigh of relief --- as Aya forced his good eye open. The young blonde knew that small physical act took more will power and strength than he could have mustered, if their situations had been reversed. He smiled what he hoped was a reassuring smile, although he felt like all he accomplished was something between a teeth-baring snarl and the look he imagined someone would have if they had accidentally swallowed a goldfish. Still, it was the best he could do, under the circumstances.

"Shit … you … you scared me a little," he muttered through the tense smile he continued to bestow upon his confused partner.

"Nnnnh," Aya managed to mutter back at him.

Not the catchiest, wittiest banter he had ever heard, but, still, all things considered, Omi thought it was pretty good. He was surprised Aya could make any sound at all.

The redhead coughed again, a bone-wrenching sound that shuddered through his entire body. He gagged and choked, managing to turn his head away from Omi in time to narrowly keep from spitting the blood in his mouth out onto the boy's clothes, although, from the looks of him, it probably wouldn't have mattered. The kid was already covered with the red stuff. A little more wouldn't have made any difference, and Aya regretted the polite gesture when it sent bolts of white-hot pain shooting through his skull. The room swirled and swam around him, culminating in a series of color flashes, and he fought back the urge to puke as he wondered if he was still lying down. If he wasn't, he damn well should be, he finally decided, when he opened his eye to see Omi still leaning over him, an earnest, slightly terrified look in his cornflower blue eyes and a strangled, strained grin pasted resolutely on his face. The grin was a bit unnerving. The kid looked like he'd swallowed a goldfish.

Aya sighed, choking as he did so, and managed to croak out in a weak, almost inaudible voice, "Stop … that." He closed his eye in an attempt to regain some semblance of equilibrium, immediately opening it again when a wave of nausea and dizziness told him what he had was about as good as it was going to get. "That … the … grinning," he muttered, in response to the silent question he saw in the kid's eyes. "Disturbing … nothing …funny … here."

Omi rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. Of all the people he could have been trapped in a huge cavernous warehouse with, it had to be Aya, the one person who couldn't come close to appreciating the effort it was taking to be positive for his sake. "It's supposed to be reassuring," Omi replied, more than a little irritated at the redhead's steadfast refusal to be comforted.

"Well … it's … not," Aya responded, his words coming out a bit slurred. He actually felt pretty damn proud of himself for managing to put together an entire sentence, even if it only consisted of three words. There was a contraction in there, too. That had to count for something, right? He lay quietly for a moment, staring at Omi with a pathetically weak imitation of his normal glare. When the room seemed to slow its spin down to what he guessed was the most manageable level he could hope for, Aya started to struggle into a sitting position, although he wasn't quite able to get his balance, due to the cuffs binding his hands behind his back.

"Be still," Omi snapped. "You … you shouldn't be moving around."

Aya silently counted to ten. At least, he thought he counted to ten. He might have skipped a few numbers here and there. After all, he wasn't hitting on all cylinders. He reminded himself the boy was just scared, and it wouldn't do any good to go postal on the kid right now. Besides, he was pretty sure screaming at Omi wouldn't do anything for the freight train of a headache pounding its way through his brain at the moment, even if it might relieve some of his anxiety. All in all, it wasn't worth the effort.

Once he had regained his composure, he hissed, managing to convey venom and irritation even though his voice was weak and cracked on every other syllable, "Then … you shoulda … let me be."

Aya regretted the harsh words and tone as he saw guilt and shame chase each other across Omi's expressive face. The kid was just scared --- and, with good reason, judging from what little he'd seen so far. Aya knew he was pissed off at himself for getting caught off guard so easily, a lapse that had landed both of them in this mess. Taking it out on Omi wasn't going to help matters any, and, in the end, he would just feel worse about things if he made Omi feel bad. The kid wasn't responsible for this mess, after all. He was.

"'M so … sorry," he mumbled. "Just … help me … sit up, OK?"

Omi had had to lean forward to hear Aya's words. The redhead didn't know whether he should laugh or feel ashamed at the surprised look that crossed the boy's face when he heard the muttered apology. He opted for doing neither, as laughter seemed inappropriate, given their situation. He wouldn't want Omi to think he'd gone completely off the deep end, after all. The kid was entertaining thoughts along those lines already, judging from the expression on his face. And, feeling ashamed just seemed like it would take too damn much energy. Aya didn't know for sure, but he had a feeling his energy reserves were swiftly running out on him, and he'd need every ounce he could spare, if he was going to get Omi out of this mess.

Funny he hadn't thought of getting both of them out of here, Aya couldn't help musing as Omi lifted and shoved him into a sitting position, leaning back against the cold metal wall behind him --- even if he did list dangerously to one side. He must be hurt worse than he had initially figured, if he'd given up on the idea of getting himself out of this mess alive. Aya wasn't sure when or how he'd come to the conclusion that only Omi would be walking away from this. It was almost like he hadn't ever decided it. Instead, it was just there --- a piece of innate, instinctive knowledge, the kind you never know about until you need it, or until some situation causes it to rise from the depths of your brain. From the moment he'd awakened to find Omi staring down at him, he had known, somehow, that only the kid would walk away from this thing. Well, he figured it was the least he owed the boy. After all, he had dragged Omi into this godforsaken mess, to begin with. He'd screwed up one thing after another on this stupid mission, starting with letting Manx push him into it when he knew they weren't ready, and ending with going to that damn club without any backup. Besides, it didn't take a genius to know he was already done for. Aya was nothing if not a realist, and he knew he was hurt badly. He knew his time and strength were limited. The ringing in his ears, the freight train that had taken the place of his brain, the throbbing ache pounding through every joint and nerve ending in his body, and the fact that the blackness hovering just at the edges of his vision seemed soft and inviting all told him that.

"… broken?"

Aya blinked away from his thoughts. He hadn't realized Omi had been talking to him, he'd been so busy giving the floor in front of him a slightly askew, one-eyed glare as he tried to collect his scattered wits. He tore his gaze away from the dusty concrete to find Omi staring at him with a frightened, earnest, and, yet eagerly hopeful expression that was almost painful to see. Clearly, the boy thought everything would be hunky dory, now that Aya was awake. Clearly, he thought Aya would, somehow, manage to, once again, do the impossible and get them out of here.

'Clearly … he's a fool,' Aya thought.

But, out loud, he asked, "What?"

"I said," Omi repeated, "Is your jaw broken?" He managed to sound peeved at Aya's lack of attention.

'Well, 'scuse the hell outta me,' Aya thought. He gave the kid a half-frown, the best he could do, since only half his mouth seemed to be working properly. He was more than a bit peeved with Omi's pissy tone. 'It's not like I've been hit in the head with a fucking board … brains scrambled all to hell or anything.'

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought he should feel stupidly happy about managing to not only put an entire sentence together without having to pause and grasp for words, but using sarcasm, too. Still, considering the gravity of their current situation, it was ludicrous to think something as mundane as stringing together a few words would cheer him up --- even if his brains had been scrambled all to hell. Regaining clarity only meant he was all the more aware of the mess they were in, not to mention the screaming, throbbing ache that now sat where his head used to be.

Aya dragged his wandering mind back to the here and now, and realized he had yet to answer Omi, who was still staring at him with that odd look, somewhere between pure terror and stupid hope. He reached reflexively for his jaw as he pondered the answer to the kid's question, feeling surprised when he couldn't feel or move his hands. Then, he remembered the cuffs.

"Uh … no," he finally answered, his words still slurred and coming at a snail's pace. "Don't … don't think … so."

Omi frowned, reaching out, almost as a reflex, to pull Aya upright as the redhead began to slide sideways, toward the floor, for the third or fourth time in the past few minutes. It worried him, the way Aya's wits were so scattered, the way he didn't seem able to focus his eye, the way his words were slurred and came so painfully slow. Omi couldn't tell if Aya was struggling to find the strength to talk, of if he was searching for words. Either way, it couldn't be good. The boy didn't know a whole lot about head injuries, but he did know getting smashed in the head with a board was bad for you. And, he knew enough to decide things looked pretty damn awful right now.

"Well," Omi muttered, his voice taking on a vague, absent-minded quality, as if he was unaware he said the words out loud, "That's pretty lucky."

He jumped when Aya managed a strangled, half-choking laugh. "Lucky …," the redhead panted, listing to the side again until Omi's well-placed hand stopped his crazy slide, "Not … a word … I'd use … here."

Omi smiled. For the first time, a small sliver of hope seemed to break through the dark cloud of fear hovering over him. If Aya could manage to be sarcastic at a time like this, if the redhead could mock him, then, maybe, everything would be all right, in the end.

"Well," he said in a light tone, shrugging off Aya's biting comment, "All things considered, I guess we have to take whatever we can get right about now." He held two fingers up, forming a "V" in front of Aya's face, and asked, "How many fingers?"

Aya managed to summon up enough strength from somewhere deep within his being to give Omi a one-eyed death glare that actually made the blood run cold. The kid couldn't help but think things might not be so hopeless, after all, if Aya could still do that.

"Look," the redhead snapped, his voice managing to rise to something approaching a normal level, "Feel … like … shit. Head … hurts. Almost … wish … that … ass … hole … had finished me. No … games. 'M fine … just … leave … me alone."

"How many?" Omi persisted.

Aya sighed. It was obvious he wasn't going to escape Omi's mother hen tendencies. Well, maybe if he died … but, it didn't seem like he was going to be that lucky right now. He leaned his head back, resting it gingerly against the wall behind him. The cold from the metal felt good. It numbed the pain a little.

"Four?" he said, closing his eye.

"No … try again," Omi said.

Aya didn't bother looking at the kid again. "Uh … eight … six? Pick … a number … any number …," he muttered, laughing giddily at the end of his statement, even though the noise devolved into a strangled, choking cough.

"Oh, yeah," Omi muttered, unable to hide the sarcastic note in his voice. "You're fine … just fine. If you're lucky, you'll get off with just a concussion. But, when was the last time any of us was lucky?" he muttered, almost under his breath, as he leaned forward to prod at the injured side of Aya's face.

Aya jumped backward the moment Omi's fingers brushed at the injury. It was as if he'd been scalded, and the boy jumped as Aya inadvertently slammed his head into the wall. He hadn't expected the gentle contact to elicit such a severe response, and he chastised himself for underestimating how painful his ministrations might be.

"Oh!," he exclaimed, darting forward to catch Aya, who had begun to slide down the wall toward the floor. "Careful! I'm … I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."

Omi stopped Aya's crazy, downward slide, exhibiting a strength that surprised the redhead. Aya rested his head against Omi's forearm and groaned in a weak voice, "Hurt … lot."

He was dimly aware of the worry and fear crowding out the eager hopefulness he'd seen earlier in Omi's eyes, and he tried to grin to dispel some of the boy's terror. All he could manage was a twisted, pained half smile, and he knew he'd failed miserably at allaying Omi's fears. One look at the boy's face told him that much. He thought he should feel bad about that. After all, Omi was his responsibility, and his mistakes had gotten them into this mess. But, Aya found he was just too damn tired to care. All of a sudden, he'd slammed up against the brick wall of his physical limitations, and all he wanted to do was lie down on the cold, dusty, concrete floor and sleep like the dead. If he was lucky, maybe he'd wake up back in his room over the Koneko. If he was really lucky, maybe he wouldn't wake up at all, and this whole nightmarish existence that had become his life would finally be over and done with.

Still, his sense of duty and the fondness he felt toward the boy, although he seldom allowed himself to show it, forced him to make some final effort at making Omi feel better. He might not be able to do anything about the kid being scared, but, at the very least, he could salve Omi's misplaced guilt. He managed another painful, twisted, half smile, and muttered, his words heavily slurred and so quiet they barely traveled the few inches to Omis' ear, "'S'okay, 'mi. Not … your fault. 'm tired … wanna … sleep."

Omi caught him as he began to fall forward. From his first good look at Aya's injuries, he'd been afraid the blow had fractured the redhead's skull, and nothing so far had allayed that fear. In fact, he felt it intensifying by the moment, and he was terrified of being left alone in this dark, dusty, creaky, cavernous place. He was terrified Aya wouldn't wake up again, and he'd truly be alone. He knew it was stupid and selfish. Aya wasn't in any condition to be of any help when their abductor returned, and, if he had had any compassion for his companion, he should have wished for Aya to be unconscious, if only to escape the pain from his injuries. But, he didn't care if he was being selfish or stupid, and he didn't feel compassionate. He only felt afraid, and Aya's presence had been comforting.

He shook his injured partner, and hissed, "No! Aya! Stay awake!"

It was too late. Aya had already fallen asleep, and Omi knew nothing would cause him to stir now. All he could do was wait and hope Aya woke up sometime soon. He refused to let his mind dwell on the all-too-real possibility that Aya might never wake up again. That was too frightening. Omi sighed and settled Aya in his lap, trying to make the redhead as comfortable as possible, and resigned himself to waiting alone, in the cold, dark, creaky, cavern of a room.

* * *

Sunlight creeping through his closed eyelids, turning the insides a shade of red, a low, soft groan, and the feeling of shifting weight on his lap brought Omi out of the uneasy sleep into which he had drifted. The boy blinked awake, surprised at finding himself sitting on the cold, dusty concrete floor in the midst of building-like stacks of wooden crates and surrounded by creaking metal walls, instead of in his own warm bed over the Koneko. They had been here for two days already, and, each day, he had awakened with the same shock of surprise at unfamiliar surroundings. He wondered if the startled feeling would ever go away, but, in the back of his mind he rather hoped it didn't. He had a feeling the loss of that initial shock of surprise would signal his resignation to whatever fate their captor had in store for them. That would be a bad thing, indeed --- for himself and for Aya.

Aya. Omi frowned as his mind turned down that particular dark and well-traveled pathway. It had been two days since Aya had passed out on him, and the older man had shown no signs of awakening. Much to Omi's dismay, Aya had barely stirred, seeming to hear and feel nothing. Omi didn't style himself as a medical professional, but he knew enough to know that was a pretty bad sign. He had to keep the despair and feeling of resignation, the feeling of being dragged toward an inevitable, unhappy ending to this little drama, at bay. He didn't care about himself, but he had to be strong, for Aya's sake. Aya was his responsibility now. He had to do whatever it took to get the older man out of here alive.

Another low groan brought his attention away from his thoughts and toward the man whose head rested in his lap. He looked down to find one exhausted, unfocussed blue-violet eye staring up at him.

Omi felt almost stupidly relieved to find Aya, finally, awake. Not that the redhead was going to be fit for anything, not that it made the slightest bit of difference in their current situation, not that it put them even the minutest smidgeon closer to having a chance at getting out of here, but it meant he wasn't alone any more. That had to be an improvement, right? It had to be better than sitting here, hour after hour, dozing fitfully, waking up to wonder if your partner was dying, only to fall back into a fitful sleep and repeat the whole process, endlessly, again and again. Maybe it wasn't an improvement at all, but Omi told himself it was. At the very least, it was different, and that was all he had at the moment, so he figured he'd have to just work with it as best he could. He pasted a resolutely cheerful, encouraging smile on his face --- at least, he hoped it was cheerful and encouraging --- and leaned forward to peer at his injured teammate.

"Man, am I glad to see you awake!" Omi chirped, struggling to maintain his normal, cheerful tone of voice and optimistic approach to things.

He doubted he fooled Aya. Even in his present condition, Omi figured the redhead could easily see through the transparent charade. But, if Aya noticed Omi was faking, he didn't mention it. In fact, Aya didn't say anything. He just stared up at Omi with a confused expression. The younger man felt his stomach clench in fear at the thought that Aya didn't recognize him.

"Shit, you really scared the ever-loving piss outta me," Omi chattered, adopting one of Yohji's favorite expressions. "You've been asleep for two whole days, I think … I thought … Well, I really started to think you, maybe, weren't gonna wake up. So, I guess we're kind of in a predicament here, huh? I wonder what Yohji and Ken are doing right now? You think they had breakfast? Maybe they went to that waffle house for pancakes. That place has the best pancakes, don't you think? I mean, I think they're much better than the ones at the coffee shop across the street from the Koneko … but, it's further away, though. Takes longer to get there. But, Yohji likes this one waitress there --- at the waffle house, I mean --- what's her name? Oh, yeah, Carmen, or Kiki, or Kat, or … well, something like that. She always gives him free food."

The words tumbled out, all running together in a sort of nervous, sing-song chatter. Omi had a tendency to rattle off when he was upset or anxious, and, even though he wanted to stop, he found he just couldn't. It was as if his brain had decided, on its own, to fill up the uncomfortable silence with words … any words … no matter how inane they sounded. Omi broke out of his monologue long enough to realize Aya was staring at him with an expression that indicated the redhead thought he had lost his mind. Well, if one of Aya's eyes hadn't been swollen shut and the right side of his head hadn't been a bloody mess, that's what the expression would have conveyed. As it was, the best the redhead could do was a sort of mild-looking confusion. Still, it was enough to make the boy realize he was nattering on mindlessly, and Omi clapped his hand over his mouth, physically silencing the stream of verbal barf.

"Sorry," Omi muttered, looking a bit sheepish. He smiled, a crooked, little boy grin that was so close to being innocent it almost made Aya's heart ache for what the kid had to be going through, and continued, "I … um … I thought you didn't recognize me. It … well, I guess I kind of ramble when I'm nervous … or upset."

Aya cleared his throat and coughed, wincing at the white-hot pain that lanced through his head, and said, "I … uh, didn't, really … recognize you. Not until you … started … talking. I guess … there's reason … to feel … like that."

His voice was so soft it almost got lost in the big emptiness of the room. Omi had had to lean forward to hear it, and, he frowned at Aya's words and the exhausted, almost resigned tone in the redhead's voice. It sounded like Aya had given up on getting out of here, like he had reconciled himself to the idea his life was going to end here, in this stupid, dirty room full of echoes, creaking metal walls, and wooden shipping crates, and that thought made Omi's blood run cold.

Aya was better than that. He deserved better than to die here like that, to die without anyone knowing or caring, at the hands of some psychopathic madman who took such pleasure in hurting others. He was the hunter, and he deserved better than to be run to ground by Weiss's prey. Omi wanted to tell him all of these things. He wanted to tell Aya how much working with him on this last assignment had meant, how he had come to think of the quiet man as part of his family. He wanted to beg Aya not to give up, plead with him to hang on, not to lose hope. He wanted to make Aya understand how much he had come to care for him over the past week, to make the swordsman realize that, if he gave up, Weiss would never be the same --- none of them would ever be the same. If Aya died here in this godforsaken place, if he just gave up like this, he would be killing all of them, even though Omi was pretty sure the redhead wouldn't see it that way. He wanted to make Aya understand all of these things, but he didn't even know how to begin.

So, instead, he asked, "You wanna sit up?"

Aya stared into nothing for a few long seconds before finally replying with a catchy, all-purpose, "Nnnh."

Omi thought about it for a moment, and then decided that had been an affirmative. Striving to be as gentle as possible, he shifted the redhead off his lap, pushing and tugging until Aya was sitting upright, leaning back against one of the cold, creaky walls.

"You know, you're pretty damn heavy," Omi joked, trying to ease the tension with a little humor. He failed --- miserably.

Aya didn't say anything. He just stared at the dusty floor near his legs, trying to will his uncooperative eye to focus. Finally, after struggling to gain control of his vision for a few minutes, he became aware of the tense, nervous silence looming about their immediate area. He glanced up and gave the boy a half-hearted, rather painfully twisted, half smile.

"Any … sign of … host?" the redhead finally managed to ask.

Omi shook his head in response. "No. I mean, I haven't seen him, at least." He gestured toward a medium-sized cardboard box, which rested a few feet away from them, about halfway between the two assassins and the first line of wooden crates. "I saw that … last time I woke up. So, I guess he's been here … with souvenirs."

He grunted as he rose to his feet, brushing concrete dust off his dark clothing and, then, reaching his arms toward the ceiling and rocking his head back and forth, stretched the kinks out of muscles forced to remain in one position for too long. After allowing himself the luxury of a leisurely stretch, Omi made his way over to the box. It was sealed with packing tape, and he prodded it with the toe of his sneaker.

"Be careful," Aya called out, his voice barely managing to carry across the small distance between them.

Omi turned back to see Aya giving the box a suspicious, unfocussed, one-eyed glare, as if he thought it would blow up at any second. The boy rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and shook his head in response, indicating, in no uncertain terms, how ridiculous he thought Aya was being. After all, considering the condition the redhead was in, and the fact that their captor had come and gone without either of them realizing it, the guy could, pretty much, do them in whenever he wanted. He didn't have to resort to anything as loud or messy as a bomb in a box.

Aya shrugged, immediately regretting the gesture, as he felt an avalanche of pain start at his head and race through every nerve ending in his body, finally stopping at his feet. He managed to choke back a groan; he figured Omi had already done a fair amount of worrying, and he didn't want to make things worse for the boy.

Omi turned his attention back toward the box. A more forceful prod with his foot caused the tape to pop open, revealing several kinds of pre-packaged food and bottled water. He walked to the other side of the package and gave it a kick, sending it sliding crazily across the dusty floor, where it came to rest near Aya with a thudding-skidding sound, like a stone skipping over choppy water. The boy followed and knelt next to it.

"Food," he said, shuffling through the contents and removing a couple of packets. He held them up for Aya's inspection. "And water," he continued, doing likewise with two of the plastic bottles. "Kinda weird, huh?" he asked, dropping the items back into the box and looking up at Aya, as if he expected some kind of confirmation.

He didn't get any. Aya just stared at the box as if it had grown legs and would walk away at any moment. Omi figured that was as close as the redhead would come to agreeing with him.

"Very … weird," Aya agreed.

The sound of his voice made Omi jump, because a response had been so unexpected. He looked over and gave Aya a sheepish grin, to hide his embarrassment at being taken by surprise. But, if Aya had noticed the involuntary startle, he didn't let on. He continued to stare at the box.

"Drugged?" the redhead asked.

Omi shook his head. "Nah, I doubt it," he replied. "If he wants to kill us, it'd be easy enough. He already has us where he wants us … no need for drugs. Besides, everything's prepackaged and still sealed up --- food and water."

"Hnh," Aya grunted in agreement. After a few moments, he added, in a quiet, confused, almost lost-sounding voice, "Guess … he … wants … play." He blinked up at Omi, wincing at the pain of moving his head the fraction of an inch that allowed him to look at the boy, and said, his voice still almost inaudibly soft in the big room, "Thought … I killed … target."

Omi frowned. He had been relieved at seeing Aya awake, a small flicker of hope that the swordsman might be all right, after all, springing to life as soon as he had seen that familiar blue-violet eye staring up at him. But now, Omi felt relief fleeing in favor of the more familiar emotions of anxiety and fear, which surged up within him to squash that tiny spark of hope. Aya was not all right. He stared at the older man for a moment, silently taking stock of the symptoms he could see: noticeably slurred speech; short, halting sentences, as if Aya couldn't quite remember which words he wanted to use; the unnerving, vacant, lost-looking stare; the perpetual state of slight confusion, something Omi knew wasn't typical for the quiet swordsman; the way he trembled almost uncontrollably --- one shudder and muscle spasm chasing another through his body, although he didn't seem to take any notice of it; the unhealthy, ashy-gray, almost waxy, pallor to Aya's skin; not to mention the actual wound itself.

Omi let his eyes linger on the physical manifestation of Aya's injury for several long seconds. It had finally stopped bleeding, although it still oozed a bit. Now, the boy could see a fairly deep gash along the right side of Aya's head, running from his temple, almost all the way to his jaw. The skin was laid open enough so that he could see small glimpses of white bone in some spots, and the facial tissue around the injury was badly bruised and swollen. The whole right half of the older man's face was deformed from the swelling, and discolored a deep, dark, almost-black purplish hue. His nose seemed slightly off-center, and his right eye was swollen shut. Omi had already decided he didn't know enough about head injuries to tell how severe Aya's was, but his mind kept coming back to the inescapable reality that getting hit in the head with a big damn board had to be bad for a person.

He had a sinking feeling Aya was hurt very badly, indeed. He knew enough to know that he had to find a way to get the redhead out of here and to medical attention as soon as possible. But how? That was the question to which he couldn't seem to find any answer, and it was beginning to frustrate the hell out of him. He was an assassin, for crying out loud! He ought to be able to figure some way out of here. He reminded himself that Aya was here, too, and had yet to come up with any plausible means of escape. As if that was going to help salve his guilty conscience. After all, Aya had been smacked in the head with a board, so he figured that probably entitled the swordsman to a bit of leniency.

A small cough jolted Omi from his silent, depressing reverie, and he looked up to find Aya staring at him with a rather expectant expression in his good eye. He realized the redhead was waiting for an answer of some kind to the question he'd sort of asked several minutes ago.

Omi smiled, and shook his head as he replied, "Um … no. I'm pretty sure you got the target. I mean … that weird guy, the one dressed all in black. He put something in my drink when I wasn't looking, dragged me out to the parking lot. Almost had me in the car when you showed up. You killed him. I saw it, just before …"

His voice trailed off at the unpleasant memory that flashed before his eyes: the hollow sound of wood smacking against Aya's skull, like a melon smashing on concrete, the swordsman's head whipping around, the surprised look in Aya's eyes just before they went dead and slid closed, Aya collapsing in that pool of blood. Omi shuddered, trying to rid himself of those visions. He knew it wouldn't do any good. Those sights would haunt him, probably for months to come, just so many new nightmares to rotate in with the old ones.

"You … think … wrong? Um … wrong guy?" Aya asked, the sound of his voice jolting Omi away from the haunting images.

The boy shook his head slowly, mulling over Aya's question, even as he answered, "No … No, I really don't think so. I … I don't know. I mean, I don't really remember who grabbed us. All I can remember is seeing him hit you, and watching you fall over. I thought …" His voice hitched a bit, but Omi managed to choke his emotions back enough to continue. When he resumed speaking, his voice was steady, "I thought you were dead … I was so fucking scared. I can't remember ever being that scared … but I just can't remember what he looked like, that guy who grabbed us." He looked sideways at Aya, who had resumed staring at the box of food, and asked, "You think … well, you think the target had a partner of some kind?"

It seemed like Aya tried to shrug in response, but he couldn't quite get his body to cooperate. The gesture turned out to be nothing more than a more pronounced tremor that seemed to run over his torso, and the redhead winced in pain at the effort, leaning back against the wall and closing his eye. Omi took that as a sign their conversation was over. He could tell just the little bit of talking they had done had, pretty much, worn Aya out, and he figured the swordsman didn't have the strength to continue.

He was surprised when he heard Aya whisper, almost under his breath, "Partner … prob'bly. Shoulda … never taken … mission. Not enough … information. Never thought … partner …"

"It's not your fault, Aya," Omi said. Aya didn't give any indication he had heard, and Omi placed his hand on the redhead's leg and gently shook at him until Aya finally looked at him. "It's not your fault," the boy repeated, giving Aya's leg a little squeeze for emphasis. "If not for you … I would've been taken, for sure. I would've been in that next set of mission photos, Aya. And, now … you're so hurt … because of me."

Omi sighed and looked away, to hide the tears he could feel gathering in his eyes. Guilt was a cruel emotion, and the boy was quickly coming to be on a first-name basis with it. Still, despite his injuries, Aya was remaining strong and resolute. At least, he seemed to be, and Omi didn't want the redhead to see him cry. After a few moments, he managed to get his emotions under control, and he turned back toward his partner, surprised to find Aya still watching him with the most intent look he'd seen cross the redhead's face in the past two days.

Omi shrugged and said, "Well, guess we'll just have to wait for him to show up again, then."

When Aya leaned his head back against the wall once more and closed his eye, Omi turned his attention toward the box, shuffling noisily through its contents. He removed several of the sealed packets and a few bottles of water. "You want anything?" he asked, unable to keep the hopeful tone out of his voice.

Aya didn't even bother opening his eye. He managed a painful-looking, twisted half-frown. He felt queasy and just the thought of food was enough to make his stomach flip flop like a dying fish.

"N … no," he replied.

He could feel the disappointment radiating off the kid, which made him selfishly glad he had opted for keeping his eye closed. He didn't think he could face the sad, crushed look that was probably on Omi's face right now.

Aya jumped, startled, when he felt something cool and wet against his lips. He opened his eye to see Omi's face inches away from his own. The boy's wide, almost-innocent blue eyes were filled with an expression of sincere worry that was almost enough to tear at Aya's heart, and he was holding one of the water bottles up to the redhead's mouth.

"Please, Aya," Omi begged, unable to calm the slight tremor in his voice, "Please, at least drink some water. You … you don't look so good."

Aya blinked at the kid for a second or two as he wondered how good Omi would look if he'd been smacked in the head with a fucking board. But, he knew the kid was only trying to help, and, instead of saying something he might regret later, he opened his mouth and let Omi pour some of the cool liquid into it. Maybe he couldn't stomach food, but he was really thirsty. Besides, arguing with Omi would take way too much effort and energy. It was easier to give in.

The cool liquid felt good as it slid down his dry, parched throat. Omi held the bottle for him until he had managed to drink it all. Once he was done, he tried to give the boy a reassuring smile, but, as all he could manage was that stupid, pained-looking, half-grin, he figured he had probably failed to hit reassuring and skipped right on over to damn creepy. Aya sighed and leaned his head back against the wall, relishing the feel of cool metal against his too-warm skin. Within minutes, he was asleep.

Omi got comfortable, leaning back against the wall and sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with Aya. It was foolish, he knew, but the sound of the swordsman's even, quiet breathing was comforting --- a small, but tangible, reminder he wasn't in this thing alone. He sat quietly for several long minutes, listening to the squeaky creak of the walls around him, the way the huge building sighed and groaned with even the smallest gust of wind, the sound of a rat, rooting around in one of the dark corners. Finally, he scooted forward enough so that he could just touch one corner of the box with the toe of his sneaker. He gave the container a quick shove, scooting it toward him with the loud, crackly scraping sound that cardboard makes when it slides over dusty, dirty concrete. The noise seemed almost deafening as it broke the silence. Omi spared a guilty glance over at Aya, afraid he had awakened the injured man, but, seeing the redhead was still sound asleep, he shrugged and grabbed one flap of the box, dragging it along with him as he returned to his previous seat, leaning against the wall. He shuffled through the contents once more. The crackling of brittle plastic wrapping ratcheted out into the cavernous space, seeming to boom back to him on echo after echo, until, finally, he found something that seemed to his liking. Omi grabbed one of the water bottles and uncapped it as he settled more comfortably on the cold, hard floor, leaning against the wall, water in one hand, pre-packaged, barely edible foodstuff in the other.

He chewed the food slowly --- not because it was tasty enough to deserve savoring, but more to have something to do, something to try and occupy his mind for a time. Maybe, if he concentrated on the food hard enough, he could stop worrying about what might happen to them, how they were going to get out of here, and whether Aya was going to survive. It was a good plan, but it didn't work. The slower he chewed … the more he tried to concentrate only on his food … the more the thoughts and fears crowded into his mind.

There were too many questions. That was what was really starting to piss him off --- too many damn questions with no answers. Did the killer have a partner? The guy who had tried to grab him at the club had been the one who had taken those other boys … Omi was certain of that. But, was he the killer? Or, did he just pick up the boys, and, then, someone else killed them later? Who had grabbed them? What was he planning on doing with them? Omi knew for certain he had been the target at the club. That was obvious. But, now? Now, it seemed as if the killer, if their captor was the killer, had turned his attention toward Aya, judging from the way the injured man was handcuffed. That didn't make sense. Had the killer set his sights on Aya? And, if so, why? Was it possible he had seen Aya kill the target at the club? So … revenge? Was the person who had grabbed them actually the killer they had been hunting? If that was so, it meant Aya had killed the wrong man in that parking lot. Omi knew the man Aya had killed had been involved somehow … but how?

The young assassin sighed, frustrated at the endless rabbit trails and questions his mind seemed content to throw at him. He'd probably never know the answer to most of them. And, it didn't matter, now. Nothing mattered but the fact that Aya was hurt … probably dying … and they were stuck in this fucking place with no way out. He had to figure a way out; he had to get Aya out of here. Nothing else mattered now. And, that led to the ultimate question, and the ultimate frustration, because he had yet to come up with a plausible answer: How? The short, one-word question seemed to echo through his mind, mocking him with its deceptive simplicity, its very existence reminding him of his weakness and failure.

Omi wrestled with his questions and his demons for several long minutes before deciding to explore the warehouse. He hated to leave Aya, even for a few minutes, even if he was still in the same room. He knew he was being irrational in that regard, but the feeling was there. Still, maybe he could find a way out of here. He couldn't just sit here and wait for the crazy bastard who had grabbed them to come back. He couldn't just resign himself --- and Aya --- to whatever that asshole had in mind for them --- not without at least trying to find an escape.

* * *

The young blonde wandered through the labyrinthine forest of wooden crates for about ten minutes before deciding their captor had chosen a very effective prison. The room was huge, with a series of echoes that reverberated off of every surface, giving your mind a sense of vast space and completing the illusion of freedom. But, for all the space around and above them, there was only one viable entrance/exit point --- the door he had seen upon first awakening. He leaned against it and pushed, rattling the handle in the vain hope that, perhaps, it wasn't locked. Unfortunately, it was … and from the outside, too, from the looks of it.

'Yeah, right,' Omi thought, feeling embarrassed and more than a little stupid for having had that small spark of hope, 'Like that was gonna happen. Like some crazy asshole would go to all this trouble --- brain Aya with a fucking board, drag us back here, and all that --- just to go off and forget to lock the damn door.'

Still, he told himself, it had been worth the effort, worth feeling foolish at failing. If he hadn't checked the door, hadn't tried the obvious … well, that would have been true and unforgivable folly. Small as it was, there had been an off chance of the door being unlocked. How stupid would he have felt if he hadn't ever tried it, if he had just stayed here, held prisoner by his belief of a locked door, instead of walking himself and Aya right out the exit?

Omi shook his head, irritated with himself, with the whacked-out bastard who was holding them here, and with the damn door for being locked. He leaned forward to give it a closer inspection. This side of the warehouse didn't have any windows, and he had to run his hands over the door to get any idea at all of its solidity and construction. What he found was disappointing. Not only was it locked from the outside, it was made from heavy, solid metal. Omi guessed, judging from the extra-heavy, reinforced riveting, someone had replaced the original door with this one. There wasn't any window or other opening in the door, and even its hinges were on the outside, which would make prying it off the wall impossible.

Omi sighed irritably, the short huff of breath exploding out unnaturally loud in the oppressive silence of the room. It echoed back to him, sounding like a small, distant gunshot, and he slammed his fist into the door before he turned his back on it and slid down to a sitting position. He drew his knees up to his chest and rested his chin on them as he listened to the sharp, metallic thudding sound of his fist striking the door echo back to him from every part of the cave-like room. He sat like that for several long minutes, listening to the echoes reverberating and fading away, staring at the scuffed toe of one sneaker and the dusty concrete floor just beyond it, and trying, really hard, not to think about what might happen next. Still, the more he willed his mind away from that topic, the more he struggled to push the fear and uncertainty from his thoughts, the more his rebellious brain insisted on traveling down the various rabbit trails and ghost paths of "what if", and the more fear clawed its way into his subconscious, until it was all he could do to keep from screaming out loud. The only thing that kept him from it was the thought of having to listen to the tangible evidence of his weakness echo back at him for what would seem like two lifetimes.

For, maybe, the first time in his life, Omi felt small and helpless, sitting there on that cold, dusty floor, dwarfed into near nothingness by the hulking crate carcasses that loomed over him, like some sort of forbidden, evil city. He was certain there had been other times when he had felt this way. After all, he didn't have the best history in the world, hadn't had what you'd exactly call a "happy" childhood. So, there had been more than ample opportunity for him to feel small, insignificant, weak, helpless, and afraid. But, try as he might, he couldn't remember actually feeling like that --- until now.

Omi shook his head in disgust, irritated and angry at himself for the way he felt, for allowing himself to feel so weak and helpless. It was stupid. He was an assassin, for crying out loud! He was Weiss! He was Bombay! But, even as his mind whispered these truths to him, even as it told him he had no reason to be afraid, the traitorous doubts crept in.

Yes, he was an assassin; yes, he was Weiss; yes, he was Bombay. All of these things were true … but, equally true, at least in his mind, was the fact that he never faced his enemies head-on. He never charged into the fray like Aya, Yohji, or Ken. He lurked in high, tight, dark places, throwing poison darts and shooting crossbow bolts into his targets from a nice, safe distance. He prowled the Internet for information on their beasts … a virtual White Hunter only … while Aya, Yohji, or Ken did the actual dirty work of in-person or undercover reconnaissance. Once those ideas took root in his mind, he felt the hopelessness, despair, and fear begin to overcome him once again.

He hated himself for feeling this way. He hated himself for not being able to be strong, the way Aya was. He was sure the redhead had to be afraid, injured and hurting as he was, but he didn't show it. Aya was dying. He'd seen enough death in his life to know his partner's remaining time was short and running out, and he hated that. Aya deserved better than that, deserved better than to die, unnoticed and alone, in a place like this, victim to a madman. He couldn't think of any way out of this mess, though, and he hated that. They weren't getting out of here --- he could feel it in his bones, in the back of his mind, like some kind of inevitable truth, the kind of thing you're born knowing, but you don't realize is there until it just springs up one day … and, then, it's like it was just there, all along. It meant he had already given up; he had already allowed their captor to win. And, he figured he hated that, most of all.

"Well, shit," Omi muttered, shaking his head to rid it of these depressing thoughts. He spoke the words out loud, more for the comfort of hearing another human voice than anything else, even if it was just his own voice, echoing back to him from another part of the room.

He stood up, dusted off his shorts, and straightened his jacket. "No time to sit around here feeling sorry for myself. Aya'd never do that … no way. He'd keep right on fighting, right up till the very end."

Omi never doubted that about the redhead. As full of doubts as he was about himself, he believed Aya was that strong, that stubborn, and that powerful. Maybe, it was the only thing he did believe at this point. Still, it was enough. He figured he owed Aya at least that much; trying to stay strong, trying to fight their way out of here … it was the least he could do for his partner.

"If the fucking door's a bust … that only leaves the windows," he muttered, as he began to retrace his winding path through the forest of crates that closed in on him from every side.

It only took him a few minutes to retrace his steps back to where he had left Aya sleeping, just under the row of windows lining that side of the warehouse. His first look at them told him they weren't a viable escape route, either. Much as he wanted, in his heart, to believe there was a way out of here, he had to face the reality that he and Aya were well and truly stuck. The windows had been his last chance at freedom, short of jumping and overpowering their captor --- something he knew he couldn't do, unarmed and on his own, considering the man's size, from what he remembered of him. Now that he stood here, squinting up into the rays of pinkish-hued, dying sunlight that slanted into the building, teasing him with their freedom and the ease with which they passed into and out of this metal prison, Omi had to admit it was pointless.

The windows were small --- too small, probably, for Aya to fit through, even if he had been in any condition to climb up to them, which he wasn't. The young blonde figured he could probably get through them, if he could reach them, but reaching them seemed like an insurmountable challenge. They had to be a good ten, maybe twenty, feet off the ground. He glanced over at the huge packing crates just a few feet to his side. They seemed to offer the only means of reaching the windows, but he couldn't stack them --- they were too big and heavy. Just one of them would never be tall enough. Besides, even if he could get up there, Aya wasn't in any condition to climb, and he refused to abandon the redhead. Nope. The windows were out, for now. That meant he was just going to have to try his damndest to be strong, for Aya's sake, and bide his time until a viable escape opportunity presented itself.

"I just hope it's not too little, too late," he thought, casting an uneasy glance toward his partner.

At least it didn't seem as if the redhead's condition was any worse, but the swordsman had begun to shiver violently. He still rested against the wall, and the temperature in the room had begun to drop as night fell. Omi sighed and pulled Aya's heavy trench, which had been crumpled nearby, over the sleeping man, wrinkling his nose and frowning in distaste as he caught a whiff of drying blood, like old copper, and noticed, for the first time, how soaked the garment was.

"Sorry, Aya," he muttered as he settled the heavy material around the injured man, "This damn thing's filthy … but, at least it's warm."

Omi sat down next to Aya, placing his side against the redhead until they were sitting shoulder-to-shoulder. He moved slowly and gently, avoiding jarring the injured man with any unnecessary or quick movement. He waited for a few minutes, until the combination of the leather coat and his body heat warmed Aya enough so that he stopped shivering. Satisfied he could, at least, do that much for his partner, Omi settled into a fitful, restless sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

Aya's life had become a twisted, burning, pain-filled, hellish blur. He had a dim recollection of being awakened from a coma-like sleep by a pair of huge, rough hands yanking him off the floor with enough force to make his teeth clatter together, of being dragged across the dusty, gritty concrete by his hair, of his shirt being ripped off and tossed aside, of harsh, growled curses spoken in perfect Japanese with a heavy English accent. You couldn't really call them memories, since his brain had reached the point where it couldn't separate the here and now from what once had been. More like whispers of memory or ghosts of reality, just like all the other information jumbled together in his aching, throbbing head. The screaming pain of his arms being pulled from their sockets told him he was hanging off the ground, probably from the ceiling. At least, he thought he was hanging. He thought it was real. It felt real … the way that pain joined and blended with the freight train of agony roaring through his head, until his entire body became one raw, bleeding, throbbing ache of hurt. It felt real, but, then again, Aya had to admit he wasn't at his best right now.

One thing was certain, though. That voice. That English-accented, sneering, perfectly-pronounced Japanese. He'd heard it once before, in the club the night he and Omi had been taken. How long ago was it, now? One night … two … three … maybe even more? It didn't matter, just like it didn't matter what had happened to him since then. He'd never forget that voice or the face of the man behind it --- a man who had unsettled him, made him careless for just the fraction of a second it had taken for this whole thing to slide right down into shit. Harrister. Roland Harrister. The man who owned the Crazy Geisha. So, it had been him … he had been the true target all along.

'Then,' Aya wondered, struggling to gather up the unraveling threads of his thoughts and finding coherence almost beyond him at this point, 'Who … who … was that? In the black … in the parking … by the car … on my sword?'

A scraping sound almost directly in front of him, the scuff of a heavy, leather boot against concrete, brought Aya's wandering attention away from his disjointed, incoherent thoughts. He struggled to raise his head and succeeded in lifting his chin about an inch or so off his chest. It wasn't much, but all things considered, he figured it should count as at least a minor victory. He was surprised he had been able to accomplish that much.

He regretted his Herculean feat almost as soon as he accomplished it. His right eye was useless, but he didn't need full range of vision to see the writing on the wall … and it told him nothing pleasant was going to happen here.

Harrister stood a foot or two in front of him, before a low packing crate pressed into service as a makeshift table. He recognized the man from their brief encounter at the club, even though it seemed like that had happened a hundred years or so ago. When the Englishman shifted his weight to one side, Aya saw beyond him, and, with a sinking feeling, observed an array of knives --- some with short, blunt-ended blades, one or two that had particularly wicked-looking, serrated edges, and a few that curved into a delicate, almost crescent-moon shape, more like a sickle than a knife. Aya was a blade man, had always loved the look and shape of sharpened, beautifully honed steel, had always been held captive by the dull blue sheen it had when forged and polished to perfection, had reveled in the feel of its weight in his hand, in the way it could soundlessly, almost effortlessly, cut through muscle, sinew, and bone with a terrible, savage poetry all its own. And, even knowing these would soon be sinking into his flesh, a part of the swordsman's brain couldn't help but be impressed with the display and, maybe, a bit jealous that someone else had such an exquisite collection. Well, a blade man was a blade man, after all.

Another part of his brain, a part that had, recently, begun to have the disconcerting habit of dissociating itself from his body, wandered over to the table and idly surveyed the various implements of doom and destruction arrayed there. It felt like that part of his mind, the part still somewhat functioning in the here and now, turned to look at him, slowly and quietly taking in his current predicament --- the throbbing, seeping wound that had turned half his face into nothing more than useless meat, the fact he was hanging from a hook in the ceiling, supported by nothing more than the chain between his cuffed hands, the blood he could feel flowing freely down his arms from where the sharp metal bit into his wrists, the realization he almost didn't register the pain, the fact he barely had the strength to lift his head. It was an oddly disjointed feeling, this scrutiny by his mind … like looking at his reflection in a mirror, but from the outside instead of within.

"You're fucked," his mind finally whispered to him.

"Don't I know it," Aya whispered back, a rare, coherent sentence, spoken so softly he knew Harrister couldn't have heard him.

Harrister approached, only the small, telltale sound of leather scraping against concrete marking his passage. As he moved from relative shadow and into the small circle of hot, glaring light thrown by the bulb directly over the redhead, his features came into sharp relief. Aya could see the crazed, enraged, predatory smile on the man's face, the way his eyes glittered with the prospect of what was to come, the way he held the knife close to his face, so the light glinted off it and threw a tiny line of gleam onto his tanned skin. The anger Aya had sensed from the man, so carefully hidden that night he had rebuffed Harrister's advance at the club, now radiated from every pore of the Englishman's being. For a fraction of a second, Aya's addled brain thought he was facing Farfarello --- the icily enraged Englishman so resembled Schwarz's Irish berserker. But, then, the illusion shifted and was gone, leaving Aya face to face with your common, everyday, run-of-the-mill, whacked-out asshole on a mission. And, somehow, that was even more terrifying than Farfarello could ever hope to be, even on his best day.

As Aya stared into the eyes of his soon-to-be tormentor, blue-violet rage colliding with and boring into glacier blue hatred, he realized, with certainty, he was seeing the last thing all those other boys had seen. All those mangled, mutilated bodies, all those young, innocent boys, cut off before they even thought about reaching their prime, had looked into these piercing blue eyes filled with rage, hatred, and glee at what was to come. It was the last thing they had seen in this world, and, from the way Harrister's eyes made his blood run cold, Aya figured it was a damn good bet they had taken the nightmare of that final vision with them into the next.

Aya wondered if, in a week or two, Yohji would see his photograph peeking out from a stack of mission paperwork, and he realized, for probably the first time in his life … well, the first time in a long time, anyhow … he was afraid to die here. He wasn't so much afraid for himself. He had given up on his own life a long time ago, had sold it and his soul away so cheaply, for an ounce of revenge … his own, personal thirty pieces of silver. No, not for himself. If it came to that, he figured Death was more than owed, where he was concerned. He'd cheated the black-cloaked figure thousands, maybe even tens of thousands, of times. He was afraid for Aya. What would happen to her with him gone? Would Kritiker keep its promise and continue to care for her? He hadn't done anything to endear himself to his teammates, so he couldn't expect the others to look in on her or care what happened to her. He hated the thought of leaving her alone in the world, after all she had already been through.

And for Omi. He was afraid for Omi, afraid of what his death would do to the boy, having already seen the all too tangible evidence of misplaced guilt over this mission failure in Omi's eyes, his earnest, too-eager desire to give comfort and aid, and his barely suppressed tears. But, more than that, Aya was terrified Harrister already realized the connection between him and Omi. Once the crazy English bastard finished him off, what was to stop him from starting in on the kid? His dead, glassy eyes staring out from a glossy, eight-by-ten mission photo, he could live with, theoretically speaking, of course. But Omi's … no. That was too much to bear.

As Harrister closed the small gap between them and leaned in close enough for the smell of his expensive aftershave to wrap around them like a python squeezing the life from its prey, the Englishman's predatory, snarling smile and the barely-contained excitement gleaming from those ice-blue eyes were enough to make Aya's stomach clench in fear and dread. He wouldn't cry out, though. No matter what this bastard did to him, he refused to cry out, refused to scream. Screaming would only alert Omi, would bring the kid running to his aid, and, likely, result in the young blonde following right on his heels into the great, unknown beyond. Aya glared back at Harrister, hoping and praying his fear didn't show on his face --- well, on the half that still looked like a face, anyhow --- and tried to swallow down the wave of fear-driven nausea that suddenly gripped him. He didn't know how much he could take. He had to be strong, for Omi's sake. He couldn't scream.

"I'm gonna enjoy this one," Harrister whispered in a conspiratorial, yet slightly seductive, tone, leaning in toward Aya, until his chin grazed the redhead's ear. "The others … they were for him." He allowed his hand to trail slowly down the uninjured side of Aya's face and across his sweat-soaked chest, his touch deceptively soft and light, almost gentle. "You, though," he whispered, letting his hand linger for a moment against the swordsman's belly, feeling the subtle rise and fall of the well-defined muscles under his palm, "You're just for me. From the first moment I saw you that night … I wanted to break you, to make you beg. For what you took from me … for what you refused me, this time … this time, I'll really enjoy it."

It was the feather-light touch that told Aya, beyond a doubt, he was not walking away from this. If he had had any illusions of, somehow, managing to survive this ordeal, that deceptively gentle touch --- the touch of a lover, really, not of a madman bent on revenge --- dispelled them in an instant. It told him he was the Englishman's possession now, a toy for him to play with as he would and discard at will.

With a slight, almost imperceptible flick of his wrist, Harrister's touch went from gentle to cruel, as he brought the curved blade arcing upward, scoring a long, shallow cut along Aya's abdomen. It burned like fire - not so much when the blade was actually piercing his flesh … it was too sharp and finely honed for that --- but, when the cut was finished and his skin lay open, parted like butter under the slight pressure from Harrister's hand, the pain set in, throbbing and burning.

Aya choked back the moan that fought to escape his lips. This was a test cut. He knew that. It was fast and shallow --- Harrister's way of feeling out his limits. Aya didn't think he could hold out for very long without screaming, without giving Harrister some of the reaction he wanted, but he had to hold out for as long as he could. If he screamed now, Harrister would deem him "unworthy", "unfit", and kill him quickly. Much as Aya wanted this to be over with already, he had to keep the Englishman's attention focused on him for as long as he could, in the hope that he could come up with some way of getting Omi out of here. He had to hold Harrister's interest. He had to do it to protect Omi.

Harrister stepped back and surveyed his work. The cut was shallow, but inflicted on a spot gauged to bring maximum pain with minimum effort. He'd had enough practice to know where and how to cut his victims so they suffered without passing out or dying before he was ready for them to do so. They had to pay … all of them … and they couldn't pay if they didn't suffer. But, this one … this one was different. The others had broken at the first sight of the knives, had sobbed and begged for mercy with the infliction of the first, shallow wound. His thoughts wandered for a moment as he stood, transfixed by the sight of the blood seeping from his first cut. It bubbled to the surface, welling up for a moment at the edge of the wound, darkest crimson against purest white, a red bloom against snow, and then dripped sluggishly, down the swordsman's abdomen to soak into dark leather pants.

Harrister allowed his gaze to roam slowly, possessively, up the redhead's long, lean body: the pale, silky skin of his stomach and chest, marred by a network of scars marking the passage of long-healed wounds; the newest injury, inflicted at the edge of his blade, which left a smear of dark red against that pale background; the gaping, bleeding wound on the right side of the man's head, which had turned that side of his face into a useless, swollen, blue-black lump of flesh; the blood trailing lazily down his arms from the deep cuts caused by the handcuffs supporting his weight off the floor --- delicate, almost lacy, red tendrils against the backdrop of well-muscled limbs and china-white skin.

The Englishman allowed his gaze to rest on Aya's face, and he smiled at the predatory, feral glare, full of unconcealed hatred, disgust, and barely contained rage, spearing him from the redhead's good eye. The swordsman was bloodied, severely injured, probably skating on the fringes of death's black oblivion, and, yet, he wasn't beaten --- not yet. Harrister couldn't help but feel a twinge of regret at having to kill this man. They were two of a kind --- both predators, both deadly vicious. He had known it from the moment he had seen the redhead in the club, had known it the second this man had rebuffed his advance, the icy-cold anger sliding through his carefully constructed façade for just a second. But, it had been long enough for Harrister to recognize the first man, in a long time, he would consider an equal. And, like the predator he was, this man wasn't going to give in so easily. The Englishman smiled again. He had known this man wouldn't disappoint him. A wolf always knows and recognizes another wolf, even when it pretends to be nothing more than a dog.

Seconds ticked into minutes, which ticked into hours, which wound themselves out into an eternity and more, as the wheels of time ground to an agonizing, screeching halt while Harrister worked. One cut, then two, then three … until there were what felt like hundreds of seeping, burning wounds on Aya's torso and back, none of them life threatening, but each one painful enough to make the redhead wish for the unknown lurking just beyond the black veil crowding the edges of his vision. Aya's world tunneled down to this one space, cramped and crowded in by the huge, dark shipping crates that loomed over him like starving beasts waiting to devour his soul. And, within this small spot that, now, made up the entirety of his existence on earth, there was only the glint of hot light off polished metal, the slow, smoldering burn of a blade tearing through flesh and skin, the steady plip-plip of his blood hitting the floor beneath him.

Harrister didn't talk. After his initial taunts, he bent his whole will toward just one thing --- breaking his prey. Aya wished for the taunts, humiliation, and mocking. He had come to expect it from his enemies, especially when he was at their mercy, and the silence that grew and festered around them, until it became like a living, putrid thing, was unnerving, perhaps even more so than the mind-numbing pain screaming from every part of his body. With each successive pass of the knife, the cuts deepened, became longer and less hesitant, as the Englishman's resolve solidified. Aya prayed for his body to shut down, for the ability to feel no pain, even if it meant his death. That would be all right with him, as long as it meant this whole ordeal would, finally, be over.

At least, he thought he prayed for it; his mind had stopped functioning at even the most rudimentary level. Now, it was as if it had decided to step out for a while, and watch the show. He had the disembodied sense of watching his own reflection once more, although, this time, it felt less strange, more … comfortable. He was pretty sure that was a bad sign.

Harrister, arrogant asshole that he was, denied Aya even the tiny relief momentary unconsciousness would bring. The dark-haired man knew what he was doing, knew exactly where to place his cuts for maximum pain without giving his victim the relief passing out or dying would bring.

Finally, Aya couldn't take it any longer, and he screamed. The sound pounded and reverberated throughout the metal building, an inhuman, almost unearthly, banshee wail. Everything he'd been holding inside --- all the hatred, all the rage, all the fear, all the pain, all the regret, all the grief --- poured out of him and into that scream. It rocketed around the room, bouncing from crate to crate, shaking the walls, and echoing back again and again and again, until it sounded like a hundred screams, and then a thousand. And, underneath it all, Aya could hear Harrister's soft laughter, the satisfied sound of a man who has finally tasted triumph. That sound … the soft, subtle laughter carried along upon the wave of his pain … told Aya he had lost. Harrister had won. He had broken.


	6. Chapter 6

Aya's scream reached in with icy, black talons and yanked Omi out of a restless, fitful sleep haunted by images of the swordsman collapsing, again and again, in a pool of blood. The boy jolted upright, confused, disoriented, and struck through, to his very core, with terror. He sat there for several minutes, panting, feeling his heart thump against his ribs, hand clenched in the fabric at the front of his shirt, cold sweat trickling down his back, and listened to the wail resound and echo off the building. He almost believed he had heard it in his dream, but, after a few moments, he realized it was too big, too _**real**_, to have been part of that nightmare world. The sound seemed to expand, filling the cavernous space until Omi thought the warehouse would explode, or, maybe, he'd go mad before it was finally done. It seemed to go on forever, a mournful, pain-filled noise that made his stomach clench in fear and brought tears to his eyes. But, suddenly, almost as quickly as it had started, it stopped, leaving in its wake a soundless void. Nothing moved, nothing breathed … even the building seemed to stop creaking.

Omi realized he was holding his breath, and let it out in a long, huffing sigh, which exploded out, unnaturally loud, in the silent room. He glanced over, to where Aya had last been, hesitant to look in that direction, as if he was afraid of what he would find. It was silly, really. He already knew Aya wouldn't be there. It hadn't registered in his mind yet, but, deep down inside, he knew Aya's scream had awakened him. He knew it in the same way he knew the sun would come up tomorrow; his mind hadn't acknowledged it, but the knowledge was there.

The sight of the blood-soaked leather trench crumpled in an untidy pile a few inches away, almost close enough to touch without even stretching out his arm, caused the true meaning behind that nightmarish scream to slam home, leaving his brain no choice but to admit its truth.

And, then, Omi was on his feet, running faster than his legs could carry him, stumbling as he tried to keep his balance, toward the little opening in that wall of crates. He bolted through the maze of dark, looming objects, twisting this way, turning that way, his sneakers making flat, slapping sounds on the concrete as he pounded through the labyrinth of boxes, his breath exploding from his body in short, strangled huffs that seared his chest and made his ribs ache, tears streaming down his face, the sound of blind panic roaring in his ears like an ocean, his heart slamming back and forth against his chest. He was a crazed, terrified creature seeking nothing more than escape. Omi cursed as he rounded corner after corner, only to slam, literally, into one dead end after another. By the time he figured out the correct direction, he was black and blue from bumping against the crates in his haste, his hands and knees were scraped, bleeding, and full of splinters, and he was almost pissed off enough to overcome his initial panic.

He knew he was nearing the end of his destination. He guessed he was somewhere in the center of the huge warehouse, although he couldn't be certain, as nothing but the iron girders criss-crossing the ceiling were visible to him, and even those were engulfed in murky darkness. He could see light glowing from the shroud-like shadows ahead, and, through the roaring in his ears, he could, just barely, make out the sound of laughter --- soft, jeering, satisfied laughter. It was that sound and knowing what it meant that finally broke through and solidified Omi's blind panic into something closer to rage. He was drawn to the light and sound, just as a moth must come to the flame that spells its doom. He didn't want to go there. He knew what he would find, and he didn't want to face it, wasn't sure he had the strength to face it. But, still, he was drawn, unwilling and, yet, unable to resist, ever forward.

The young blonde turned a final corner, willing his jellied legs to speed up, to carry him ever faster toward the evil he'd find at the end of his path. In his haste, he stumbled over his own feet as he reached the opening from where the light glowed, and tumbled forward, landing on his hands and knees in a make-shift clearing amid the black forest of crates. He looked up and felt his stomach clench in fear for a moment, before attempting to exit his body by crawling up his throat and out his mouth. He had known what he would find … had known, and, yet, still hadn't been prepared for this.

A single bulb, hanging from a long cord attached somewhere in the shadowy recesses of the ceiling, illuminated the small, open space with a white-hot glare that threw everything into harsh, garish relief. It slammed into Omi's eyes with enough force to make the boy wish for momentary blindness, just to escape the light's ferocity. Their captor stood with his back toward the young blonde, and Omi came face-to-face with a heavily-muscled pair of legs clad in old, faded denim and a pair of black, leather biker boots. He looked up … and up, feeling smaller and smaller by the moment, dwarfed as he was by the huge, hulking crates, and, now, this person who, from the boy's point of view, seemed more like a giant than a man, and saw a broad, muscular back covered in soft, blue linen stretched just tightly enough to show every curve and sinew, and, eventually, shoulder-length, thick, jet-black hair. Although he couldn't see the man's face, Omi recognized him as Roland Harrister, the man who had approached Aya that last night at the club.

Omi couldn't spare much time or attention for their captor. The boy's vision tunneled down until all he could see was his partner. Aya hung from a hook attached to the ceiling, suspended a foot or two off the floor and supported only by the chain between his cuffed hands. His bare torso was bloody, and red streams trickled down his arms. The swordsman's chest was a mass of cuts --- some small and shallow, others deep and long. A few, along Aya's ribs and near his collarbone, were deep enough to allow for a glimpse of white bone. His head was slumped against his chest, but, as the young blonde fell into the clearing with the small, splatting sound of flesh hitting concrete, Aya looked up. His good eye focused on Omi, and he mouthed the boy's name.

It wasn't hard to tell this "play session" had been going on for some time. Many of the cuts had stopped bleeding. There was a small puddle of blood underneath Aya, and the sound of his blood dripping onto the floor seemed to echo out loudly in the cavernous space. Omi wondered how long the older man had endured the torture before, finally, voicing the inhuman wail that had awakened him. Aya had struggled to suffer silently on his account, and the young blonde felt a lump rise in his throat at that realization. Aya had fought so hard to protect him, but Omi wished, with all his heart and soul, the swordsman hadn't taken so much of this burden on himself. He wasn't afraid of their captor --- not for himself, anyhow. His only fear was for his partner, for the injuries Aya had already suffered, and for the torture that still lay ahead. Aya had had more than enough trouble with the head wound, and Omi was certain the redhead couldn't take much more. The older man's scream, which still echoed through the young blonde's memory, confirmed Omi's worst fears.

As he watched, Aya's tormentor sidled up to the injured assassin and ran a gentle, loving caress over Aya's bleeding chest and side. Omi could see enough of the man's profile to witness the smile that crossed his face when Aya hissed in pain. The young blonde wanted to do something --- yell, scream, throw himself at the man in blind rage … something, anything, but he was too horrified even to scramble to his feet. Instead, he remained as he had fallen, kneeling on all fours, and watched the drama before him with a sinking sense of dread.

"The others," the man whispered, his voice pitching to a secretive, conspiratorial tone that barely carried the short distance to where Omi remained crouched, frozen in place, "They were for him. To protect him … to save him. But you … my beautiful prize … you're all for me. Just for fun. I'm going to savor every scream that comes out of your mouth, you filthy murderer. For what you took from me … I'm going to make you pay … until you pray for death … until you're broken at my feet, begging me to let you die. And, I'm going to enjoy every second of it."

The low, almost seductive tone of the man's voice had an edge of venomous hatred to it, and the cruel words were at odds with the gentle way he stroked Aya's bleeding chest. With a flick of his wrist, so fast that Omi barely saw it, he raised his hand to the uninjured side of Aya's face and drew the knife down it, opening a gash from the redhead's temple to his chin. Aya didn't seem to notice. After first seeing Omi, his head had slumped back down onto his chest, and it remained there, even as his tormentor unleashed this newest river of red onto his marred skin. Omi figured Aya was too exhausted to react, but the dark-haired man grew angry. His eyes narrowed in rage, and he backhanded Aya across the injured side of his head.

Aya's head snapped back and to the side, blood flying from old and new injuries alike, to splatter across the wooden crates surrounding him, and his vision exploded into brilliant, multi-colored lights at the impact. The darkness crowding the edges of his vision surged forward, like a pack of hungry wolves intent on a kill, and Aya found himself wishing it would engulf him. He was tired. He had passed his limits hours ago, and, even at that, he hadn't been strong enough to protect Omi. He had seen the boy stumble and fall into the area behind Harrister, no doubt, summoned by his scream. He knew it was only a matter of time before the English asshole noticed Omi's presence, and, from there, it was inevitable that the man would see the logic of a connection between them. He had failed. All he had needed to do was protect Omi, even if at the cost of his life, and he hadn't been able to do that. He had failed --- miserably --- and he could feel despair overtaking him. It was Aya all over again, as if he was watching, helpless, as her body arced through the air and bounced off the trunk of Takatori's shiny, black car.

Even though Harrister's body was between Omi and Aya, some of the blood splatter reached the young blonde. It sprayed across the boy's arms and onto his face, leaving a coppery-metallic taste in his mouth. That was what, finally, managed to break through the horror-induced stupor. The taste of Aya's blood slammed into Omi's brain like a freight train and filled the boy with a rage strong enough to overcome any horror or fear he might have felt, a burning anger that smoldered brightly enough to make him foolhardy.

Omi surged to his feet and threw himself at Harrister's considerable bulk, screaming, "LEAVE HIM ALONE, YOU BASTARD!"

The words echoed and reverberated around the cavernous room, until it sounded like a hundred throaty screams of pure, hate-driven rage. The young blonde slammed into Harrister at full speed and with all the force he could manage. He had hoped his head-on charge, coupled with taking the Englishman by surprise, would knock Aya's tormentor off-balance and bring him to the floor. If he could manage to get him down … if he could, somehow, get the upper hand by getting on top of the man, Omi was sure he could defeat him. Harrister was bigger and stronger, but Omi had training and experience that, under the right circumstances, could more than make up for the difference in their sizes.

Aya had seen Omi take on opponents much bigger than him on many occasions. Some of them had even been as big as Harrister, and the young blonde had always come out on top. Omi might be young, and he might be small, but he could more than take care of himself, and he was a strong ally in any normal fight. Unfortunately, this wasn't a normal fight, and the Englishman wasn't a typical opponent. Whether he had had some kind of military training, which enabled him to react quickly, or whether his senses were honed by the rage that drove him to the edge of insanity, Harrister managed to turn in time to meet Omi's attack. Without the advantage of surprise, and against a rage-maddened opponent, the Englishman's bigger size carried the day.

Harrister met Omi's charge with a vicious backhand that caught the young blonde a glancing blow along the side of his head and sent him careening into the nearest shipping crate. Omi bounced off the wooden hulk and slid, stunned, to the floor. Cat-quick, Harrister was on him, striking out to grab a handful of Omi's t-shirt and using it to lift the boy off the floor. He held Omi at eye-level, and regarded him with a cold, remorseless expression --- a snake staring at its next meal. Despite the bells going off in his head, Omi had enough sense to feel his blood freeze at the look in the Englishman's eyes. They were cold, filled with a rage that was like ice --- a rage that, instead of making him irrational and careless, had made him calculating and fixated on nothing more than accomplishing his goal of breaking and destroying Aya. There was no guilt, no remorse, no human emotion … other than that unblinking, blinding, freezing hatred.

The Englishman seemed to think for a moment, shuffling through all the pieces to this particular puzzle until he found the little bit of sky that, finally, brought the picture into sharp focus. When he realized what had happened, he smiled --- a predatory, satisfied grin that curled from the middle of his mouth outward but never laid a finger on his eyes.

"So," Harrister said, his tone so smug it made Omi want to spit in the man's face, "This is why. I thought you were just stubborn, but you didn't cry out because of him. You were protecting him, weren't you?"

His ice-cold snake eyes shifted from Omi to Aya. He glared at the injured man for several long moments --- several separate, little eternities --- trying to gauge Aya's reaction or read some emotion or some answer in the redhead's face. He failed. Aya revealed nothing, his violet stare matching Harrister's blue one icicle for icicle.

"What is he to you?" the Englishman asked, his voice soft, but his tone menacing.

Aya said nothing.

Harrister hissed in anger, and, still maintaining a firm grip on Omi's shirt, he freed his other hand by placing his knife between his teeth before reaching out, lightening-quick, to grip Aya's face. He squeezed until Aya gasped out in pain and Omi could see tears well up in the swordsman's uninjured eye.

The Englishman released the redhead and stepped back a bit before repeating, his words muffled by the knife still clenched between his teeth, "Who is he to you?"

Aya's head slumped back toward his chest, too exhausted to hold it up any longer, too tired to even glare at his tormentor. "No one," he mumbled, his voice weak and his words barely audible. "Don't … know."

Harrister smiled. Omi was certain it was the same kind of smile a gazelle sees as the lion descends upon it, and he swallowed, hard. He had recovered a bit from Harrister's stunning blow, but not enough to loosen the man's grip on his shirt. He struggled weakly, but he gave up, quickly deciding it was no use. It was a wiser move to wait for another opening. No one was that perfect. Harrister would make another mistake, and Omi needed to be able to take advantage of it. To that end, he decided it was wiser to conserve his energy instead of fighting to free himself from the death grip that held him dangling off the floor like a rag doll.

"In that case," Harrister purred, his eyes never leaving Aya's. He took the knife from his mouth and continued, "You won't care what happens to him. He must be expendable … just a weed that wandered into my garden." As he spoke, he brought the knife to Omi's throat and began to draw it across, opening a shallow, harmless cut.

Aya had thought he was beyond fear, beyond caring, but his stomach clenched and his blood ran cold as he watched the light glint dully off the blood --- his blood --- covering that blade, as he saw the tiny trickle of red against the white of Omi's throat. Aya's mind raced. He had to get Harrister's attention off Omi. He had to protect the boy. Suddenly, almost without consciously realizing it, his mind seized upon what seemed like the Englishman's only weak spot.

"What … was … he?" Aya asked, struggling to find the words he needed to put a coherent sentence together. His voice was hoarse and weak. The huge space surrounding them almost swallowed it up, but it was enough to carry across the few inches separating him from Harrister and Omi.

Omi's eyes grew round and frightened when he realized what Aya was doing. He shook his head frantically, slightly deepening the cut, as Harrister still held the knife against his throat, and started to protest, but Aya's next words cut him off.

"That … boy," Aya gasped out in a strained, hoarse whisper, which held Harrister mesmerized.

He was satisfied to see he had, once again, managed to direct the Englishman's attention onto himself, and he was even more satisfied to see Harrister's hand, the one holding the knife, begin to shake. He had guessed correctly. His words were having the desired impact.

"He … died … squealing … weak … like a pig … on my … s … sword. Almost too … e … easy … not … worth … effort," Aya continued, his speech strained and halting as he struggled for coherence. "Who … was he?"

Aya's words had their desired effect. Omi watched, mesmerized, as the emotions shifted and changed, chasing each other through the dark-haired man's eyes like a thunderstorm sweeping over the city. Ice-cold determination and hatred melted and gave way to the briefest glimmer of soul-rending grief, which was replaced, lightening fast, by white hot, blinding rage, so strong it seemed, for a moment, that Harrister had gone truly mad. The Englishman seemed to forget where he was, his eyes taking on an unfocused and far-away look as he released his hold on Omi's shirt. The young blonde fell to the floor, where he landed in an unceremonious heap with a puff of dust and a muffled grunt. Almost as quickly as it had happened, the fuzzy, unfocused, confused look slid away, fleeing before the white-hot flames of rage and hatred that swept Harrister's eyes and face, burning away all other emotions as they came.

"You … stupid … arrogant … fucker," Harrister muttered.

He stood, turned slightly sideways to Aya, with his head bowed, which caused his voice to sound muffled and strange. But, Omi, who had landed only a few inches away from the man, looked up and had a clear view of Harrister's rage-filled eyes. The young blonde was close enough that he could see the way the Englishman's fist clenched so tightly the knuckles turned white and his whole arm trembled from the force. He could hear the emotional tremor in the dark-haired man's words.

Omi felt his heart thud against his ribcage, an involuntary response to what he saw written so plainly on Harrister's face and in his eyes. He had been an assassin for nearly his entire young life, had faced maniac after maniac, had seen and experienced, first-hand, the inhuman things people can do to one another. But, in all those years, in all that life experience, he had never seen anyone look quite the way this man did right now. It scared the piss out of him, the way any semblance of reason had left the Englishman's countenance, replaced, not by madness or grief, both of which would have been understandable and human, considering the situation. No, the only emotion there, the only thing written on Harrister's face and in his eyes was spitting, venomous, white-hot, blinding rage --- the cold, calculating rage of a man who has already decided he has nothing left to lose. Omi knew Aya had said those things to protect him, to divert Harrister's attention away from him, but, seeing the sanity and reason flee the Englishman's countenance in favor of this raw, animalistic emotion that remained, he also knew Aya had, without realizing it, gone too far.

Omi glanced around him, driven close to panic by Harrister's expression, frantically searching for a weapon of any kind --- a board, a piece of pipe, a sharp shard of glass, a sliver of wooden packing crate --- anything he could use to defend his partner. He was going to kill Aya. This fucking asshole was going to kill Aya right here, right now, and Omi couldn't let that happen. There was no way he was just going to sit here and watch that happen without at least trying to stop it, even if he already knew trying was pointless, just one more fool's errand in a life-long string of them.

But, there was nothing --- no board, no sharp piece of glass, no suitably long sliver of wood --- nothing except the knives arrayed on Harrister's packing crate table, and the Englishman was closer to them than Omi was. The boy began to estimate the distance, glancing back and forth from Harrister to the table, trying to judge whether he'd be able to reach the weapons before the Englishman was on him. He wasn't sure. He was smaller, and should be faster, but he had seen Harrister move, and knew the man was quick for all his bulk. Even so, it seemed like the man had forgotten he was there, and Omi figured that should give him a slim advantage. It wasn't what he would have liked, but the young blonde figured slim to none were the best chances they could hope for in this situation.

"He … he was …his name was Jack," Harrister muttered, his words barely carrying the foot or so separating him from Aya. "And … he … was my brother. HE WAS MY LITTLE BROTHER!"

Omi had been so busy eyeing the knives he hadn't managed to hear Harrister's words. But, at the Englishman's shout of rage, he looked up, saw the man's body weight shift subtly, and realized he was about to attack. Omi vaulted to his feet, intending to at least put himself between the Englishman's rage and Aya, but he wasn't fast enough. He had hardly gotten to his feet by the time Harrister spun around, his heavily-muscled body moving with a surprising grace and speed, and landed a solid, bone-crunching spin kick to Aya's stomach.

The kick impacted with enough force to send Aya catapulting off the hook and into the crate behind him. There was a sickening, almost deafening crunch --- the sound of bone and wood breaking at the same time --- which reverberated and echoed around them for two lifetimes of eternities. The swordsman's body struck the box with enough force to splinter it, sending sharp shards flying all over the immediate vicinity. Omi turned his head, shielding his eyes from the debris, but he looked back in time to watch Aya's body come to rest amid the splintered remains of the crate with a dull, hollow, heart-wrenching thud. The redhead landed, still and limp. Omi slumped bonelessly to the ground at the sight, his knees gone to jelly and refusing to support his weight.

Harrister moved forward, splinters of wood shattering under his heavy boots with sharp cracking sounds that were so similar to the noise of breaking bone it sent shivers up Omi's spine. He stopped at Aya's side and stared down at his fallen foe, a snarling sneer twisting his handsome features into a mask of evil, and nudged Aya's head with the toe of his boot as he muttered, almost under his breath, "He was my baby brother."

He turned and swept past Omi toward the exit, apparently having forgotten the boy even existed.

* * *

Omi glared up at the windows. They were so close, and, yet, so out of reach; their very existence mocked him. He could see the moon, which had just risen, full and so white that it almost hurt his eyes. It hung there, like some over-inflated balloon, in the middle of the window above him, seeming close enough that he could touch it, if he just stretched his fingers far enough. He hated that damn moon. It was childish, idiotic, and showed just how impotent he felt against their current predicament, but, still, he hated that glowing, brilliant-white orb with more passion and more vehemence than he had ever hated anything. He hated it because it was out there, and they were in here, trapped like rats, nothing to do but sit around and wait for the cat to show up.

It had been four days since he had first stumbled, literally, onto Harrister's little "play" session with Aya. The dark-haired Englishman had returned twice in that time, each visit heralding the start of another sadistic, inhuman round of torture heaped upon the broken redhead. Well, Omi had to admit "broken" wasn't quite the right word. Aya was beyond his limits, physically, the head injury and the wounds inflicted by Harrister starting to take a heavy toll on him. But, his spirit and stubborn will were as strong as ever. The young blonde figured Harrister would kill Aya, eventually, but the dark-haired psychopath would never get the true satisfaction he sought. He would never see Aya break emotionally.

Funny, Omi suddenly realized, how he hadn't thought about both of them getting out of here, how his mind had just slid right into the conclusion their kidnapper would kill Aya. He hated himself for that. It was like he was betraying Aya, giving up on the stubborn redhead so easily.

'Guess I'm the one who broke, eh, Aya?' Omi thought as he glared venomous daggers at the tauntingly out-of-reach portals to freedom.

Omi shivered and clutched his arms around his waist for warmth, although he knew he'd never get warm like that. This wasn't the kind of cold you could warm away. He was cold from the inside out --- cold with fear, cold with hate, cold with rage, cold with feeling powerless, cold with knowing he couldn't do anything but watch while that bastard tortured Aya to the brink of death and beyond. And, that thought chilled him more than any other --- that he was going to have to sit and watch, helpless, powerless to intervene, while that crazy English fucker killed Aya.

Not that he wanted to. Not that it didn't take every ounce of strength he had to keep from throwing himself onto Harrister in a fit of rage and killing the man with his bare hands --- well, trying to kill him, anyway. Considering their size difference and the fact Harrister had, obviously, had formal training of some kind … probably military … Omi figured he'd lose. Still, it would be worth it, just to get the asshole off Aya, even for a minute or two. At least, that's how Omi had felt at first. When Harrister had come back, after that first time, he had attacked the Englishman --- made a pretty damn good showing of it, too, having given the psychopathic asshole several deep cuts, scratches, bruises, and bite marks he still wore. But, in the end, when Harrister had gotten the better of him, Aya had stepped in and provoked the Englishman to the point of blind rage, in order to protect him.

Omi shivered again as he remembered the swordsman's screams echoing in an endless, relentless cycle around the building. That had been two days ago, and he could still hear them pounding and roiling around in his head. He figured he'd hear them for the rest of his life, and it would serve him right. It was what he deserved, for his weakness, for his inability to do something as simple as protect his partner, for standing by and letting Aya take all of this on himself.

He felt ashamed. He hated himself for his weakness, for his fear, and for his inability to help Aya. But, after that one time, Omi had been afraid to try anything else. He had been afraid Aya would have to protect him again, and he couldn't bear the thought of it. As it was, he didn't know how much more Aya could take. Harrister's last "playtime" hadn't lasted ten minutes. Aya had passed out before then, and it seemed the Englishman didn't get any pleasure out of torturing someone who couldn't feel it or scream in response. If the redhead had to provoke his tormentor again, Omi was sure Aya wouldn't have the strength to survive what would follow, and the young blonde just couldn't live with that on his head. It was bad enough knowing, if Aya died, he was indirectly responsible for it, his mistakes and carelessness having landed them in this predicament in the first place. But … to be so directly, actively responsible … that was something he couldn't live with.

No. They had to get out of here. That was all there was to it, but how? He kept coming back to these windows, again and again, lured by the siren song of the freedom they promised. He would stand here, just like this, motionless, for hours, staring up at them. They were the only possible way out, but they seemed so out of reach. Omi knew he was only feeding his own depression and feelings of worthlessness, but he couldn't leave the windows alone. He couldn't make himself stay away from them. He kept thinking, somehow, if he stood under here long enough, the answer would reveal itself to him and he'd suddenly see the way out.

"It's the only way," Omi muttered, not even really aware he had said the words aloud. "They're the only way out … but … how? How can we possibly get up there?"

"With this."

Omi whirled around, startled by the sound of Aya's voice. He had left the swordsman in that little clearing amongst the crates, the place he had come to think of as Harrister's playground. He hadn't wanted to stay there, so near the place where Aya had been tortured, but, after the last session, Aya hadn't been in any condition to move. He couldn't believe the older man had had the strength to stand, let alone make his way through the dark maze of packing crates to this clear stretch of floor near the windows. The swordsman was a mess. His head wound had worsened, the cuts lengthening and deepening from all the extra abuse Harrister had heaped upon him. Much to Omi's dismay, it still seeped fresh blood, even after the passage of all this time. Aya's torso and back were a mass of cuts of varying depths and lengths, all inflicted during Harrister's "play" sessions. Most of them still bled freely. After the first time, Omi had tried to stop the bleeding, and had succeeded in getting the worst ones staunched, but he had, finally, given up on getting the flow to stop altogether. In the small spaces where skin managed to peer through all the blood, Omi could see red, angry welts and dark, blue-black bruises, testament to the beatings Aya had taken. The young blonde knew Harrister's last fit of rage had cost Aya at least two broken ribs, and, maybe, a fractured collarbone. Aya's right shoulder dipped at a funny angle that had nothing to do with the tentative way his body supported its own weight, and, now that his hands were cuffed in front, he kept his arms pulled in tightly at his sides to support the painful ribs. The cuffs had inflicted deep gashes and ugly, black bruises on Aya's wrists, and Omi could see smears of blood on the redhead's arms, from where it had run down them while Harrister had hung him from the ceiling.

Aya leaned against the nearest box, panting from the exertion of threading his way through the wooden forest to find his partner, and struggled to catch his breath. His body was rigid, his movements jerky and tentative, as if he was made of the most brittle glass and one misstep would shatter him beyond repair. Omi figured that assessment wasn't too far from the truth. Aya had already been through more than any person could take, and the fact he was still alive, not to mention having summoned up the strength to move under his own power, was testament to the swordsman's fortitude and iron-clad resolve. Omi knew Aya's stubborn nature was the only thing the redhead had to cling to at the moment.

As the young blonde mentally catalogued every bruise, every broken bone, every bleeding gash and filed them away in his memory against what he would take from Harrister's hide if he ever got the chance, Aya swayed. Moving for even the short distance he had traveled had been almost too much for him. He leaned into the crate a bit more, and seemed ready to slide down it to the floor. Omi quickly crossed the space separating them, unable to bear the thought of the swordsman sliding all those bleeding, raw wounds over rough wood, and managed to reach Aya just as the redhead lost his footing. He caught the older man and, ever so gently, murmuring nonsensical words of encouragement the entire time, lowered him to the ground, grunting under the burden of Aya's weight.

"Woke … up… gone … thought … okay?" Aya muttered, his voice hoarse and raspy, barely more than a whisper. It was obvious he was struggling, both for the strength to talk and for the words that seemed intent on eluding him. When Omi shook his head and gave Aya a questioning look, indicating he hadn't understood, the redhead sighed and took a shallow, gasping breath before trying again, "You … okay?"

"Yes," Omi replied, his voice soft.

He brushed a strand of Aya's bangs out of the head wound, careful to avoid making physical contact with the swordsman's face. Aya's hair was so matted with blood it had taken on a new shade of red. Omi frowned, turning his attention to his partner's wrists and the deep wounds and bruises inflicted by the handcuffs. He pushed the metal bracelets back a little and brushed at the injuries, eliciting a pained hiss from Aya.

"So … sorry," Omi muttered, embarrassed at having caused the swordsman additional pain. It seemed he was doing that a lot on this mission --- trying to help and ending up causing more trouble --- and he hated the hell out of it.

"I'm okay, Aya," Omi continued, giving his partner what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "He didn't hurt me at all. You … protected me." The young blonde's voice hitched a bit at the end of his last statement, and he struggled to fight back the tears he could feel threatening to gather in his eyes.

"Worth … it," Aya said, his wandering attention focused, for the moment, on the dusty concrete near his leg.

Despite the way his mind seemed to have wandered off out of his control, the way his memory had warped and developed staggering holes in its content, the way he found the blackness pushing in on him ever more seductive and inviting, Aya could still see Harrister holding that knife to Omi's throat. The image was burned into what was left of his brain --- one of his worst nightmares, watching another person for whom he cared destroyed right in front of him, unable to stop it. He knew he'd carry that vision with him to his grave … and, probably, pretty soon, judging by how soft and comfortable that blackness was starting to look. Aya had been terrified when Harrister had turned on Omi. He couldn't remember ever being that scared, except for his parents' deaths, Aya's accident, and a few times when Yohji or Ken had been late showing up from a mission.

Omi seemed about to respond to his statement, but the boy's words were lost in a small, hitching sob, which he barely managed to stifle.

"You … gotta … leave," Aya continued, before Omi could pull himself together enough to say anything. The redhead talked so softly the boy had to lean forward, his ear close to Aya's mouth, in order to hear, and the words were halting and hesitant as the swordsman struggled for coherence.

Omi shook his head frantically in response to Aya's statement. "No!" he exclaimed, "No way. No fucking way! We leave here together or not at all. Besides, there's no way out. You know that. Even if there was, I'm not leaving you."

"Windows," Aya muttered.

Omi shook his head again. "No, Aya," he said, his voice patient, his tone that of a parent reasoning with a stubborn child, "They're too high. I already tried them. It's no use. It'll never work."

"With … this," Aya said.

A tiny, sharp, metallic clink drew Omi's attention toward Aya's hands as the redhead released a small object. It clattered to the floor, and, in the moonlight from the windows above them, Omi recognized one of Yohji's watches. He frowned at Aya, confused as to why the redhead would have their teammate's weapon. Yohji was a fanatic about his weaponry. They all were. You didn't stay alive long in their business if you didn't take care of your equipment, and none of them would ever willingly let their weapons out of their sight for any length of time. So, how was it Aya had Yohji's watch? Had the chain smoking idiot actually given it to him? For the first time, the depth of the friendship and trust between Yohji and Aya hit him. Why hadn't he seen it before? But, it was true. There was the proof, right there on the floor next to Aya's leg. Somehow, knowing Yohji held the redhead in such high regard made Omi feel that much more protective toward him, as if he, now, had to protect Aya for Yohji's sake, too.

"Yohji's watch," Omi muttered, retrieving the fallen object. "But, how did you …?"

"Yo … Yohji," Aya said, cutting Omi off mid-question. He was running out of strength, and he had to get Omi out of here before it failed him. "For … forgot … had it. You … use it … es … cape."

"We'll go together," Omi said. He felt his heart clench when Aya slowly, gingerly, shook his head. "Please, Aya, don't … don't make me go."

He knew he was begging, and he knew it was irrational. All that time spent standing under these damn windows, wishing for a way out. Now that it was in his hands, now that he could smell freedom, he wanted nothing more than to remain here, imprisoned in this cavernous room forested with the huge packing crates. If he left Aya here, he had a sinking feeling he'd never see the swordsman again. Harrister would kill him, and they'd never find the body. Omi couldn't bear the thought of leaving Aya behind, couldn't stand the idea of the stubborn, iron-willed redhead dying alone, the last victim of that psycho, murdering, English bastard. Somehow, without him even realizing it was happening, Aya had come to mean so much to him. When had that happened? When had he stopped having to struggle to think of Aya as Weiss and begun thinking of him as his friend … his brother?

"Please, Aya," Omi repeated. "Together. We'll go together, OK?"

Aya, once again, shook his head no. He finally summoned up the strength to look at Omi, and the young blonde was shocked beyond words, and a little bit scared, to see tears in the swordsman's good eye.

"Can't," Aya managed to choke out. "Can't … make … it. Everything … too hard … Hurts … too … much …Can't … protect … Can't … hang on … longer. You … have … go."

Omi sat quietly for a moment, his mind stringing Aya's broken words into sentences and considering what the redhead had said. Aya was dying --- had, probably, been dying from the first minute Harrister had dragged them back to this godforsaken place. No matter how much the young blonde wanted to deny it, no matter how much he wanted to pretend otherwise, he knew it was true. And, Aya knew it, too. He could see it in the swordsman's face, and he realized Aya had only been hanging on for his sake, to protect him. All the more reason, in Omi's mind, not to go. Still, if he left, he might be able to bring Yohji and Ken back here in time to save Aya. It was only a slim chance, but, if he stayed, they'd have no chance at all. And, then, there was Harrister. Aya had taken so much damage keeping the Englishman's attention off him. His leaving would remove that threat from Aya's head, and Omi figured that had to help a little.

"All right," the young blonde finally agreed. He leaned forward and retrieved the watch from the floor. It made a soft, metallic clicking sound as he turned it over in his hands and released a small length of the wire coiled inside.

"All right," Omi repeated, with a soft sigh, "I … I don't want to do this." He found he couldn't even look at Aya, so he focused his attention on the small patch of dusty concrete near the toe of his sneaker. "I don't want to leave you, but … I know you're right. If I go … I can get Yohji and Ken." He finally summoned up the courage to look at his partner and found Aya staring at him with an unblinking, one-eyed gaze that was surprisingly intense and focused, considering everything the redhead had been through. "Promise me, Aya," Omi said, his voice quavering a little, "Promise me you'll wait for us. Promise you'll stay alive until we come back for you."

Aya stared at the boy for several minutes. He knew Omi needed to hear the words, needed to hear him promise, needed to believe he would hang on until they could come back for him. Omi needed to believe everything would work out, in the end. Aya understood this, and he wanted to give it to the boy. He wanted to bestow that belief, foolish, childish, candy-apple fantasy that it was, on Omi --- his final gift to the young blonde who reminded him so much of his sister, one final act of kindness that, maybe, would undo some of the black karma he'd built up over the past few years. But, he just didn't know if he could. Promising meant he had to try; he had to try to survive, had to struggle to continue living, and he just didn't know if he could. Really, he didn't know if he wanted to. Time was when he'd been afraid of death, been afraid of leaving those he cared about alone in this world. But, now, the blackness was so familiar, so inviting. It didn't seem all that bad, anymore, and Aya was ready for this whole, little drama to be over. He already knew how it was going to end; the soft, inviting black hovering at the edges of his vision told him that. So, why bother playing it out any longer? Why not just skip to the ending and be done with it?

"Aya," Omi prompted, "Promise me."

"Try," Aya finally answered. He looked away from the boy's earnest, almost-innocent blue eyes. Omi tended to wear his emotions there, for the world to see, and Aya couldn't face the fear and disappointment written in them at the moment.

"No," Omi stated, his tone flat, matter-of-fact, and insistent. He reached over and, ever so gently, cupped the redhead's chin in his hand, forcing Aya's head up, so he could look into the swordsman's good eye, "If that's all you can do, I'm not leaving. I don't care if I die, too … but, I won't leave you here to die alone. You don't just fucking try, you hear me? You promise me. Promise me, or I'm staying."

Finally, Aya nodded his head, ever so slightly, his eye sliding away from Omi's face, refusing to meet the steady, earnest gaze in those cornflower-blue eyes.

"Say it," Omi insisted. "I have to hear you say it out loud, or I won't go. Promise me you'll hang on … you'll stay alive until we come back for you. Promise, Aya."

"Pro … mise," Aya whispered, slumping forward as his strength finally gave out.

Omi caught the older man before he hit the floor. His arms tightened around the redhead's battered, bruised body in a gentle, protective hug, and he pulled Aya closer to him, praying, to anyone who cared to listen, that Aya would be able to keep his promise. Omi knew what it had taken for the redhead to make it, and he knew Aya would never willingly break his word. He knew, in the end, this one, simple promise, one demanded, perhaps, more out of a boy's childish selfishness than anything else, would cost Aya dearly. So, Omi prayed and wished with the fervor of childhood innocence, something he'd never truly known, that Aya would have the strength he needed to endure what was sure to come, and that they would be able to get to the redhead before it was too late. Impulsively, he brushed his lips against the top of Aya's head, a whisper of a kiss against filth encrusted, blood-matted hair, before lowering the unconscious man the rest of the way to the cold, hard, dusty floor.

"I'm … I'm sorry, Aya. I'm so sorry," he whispered.

Swiftly, now that his mind was made up, Omi returned to his position under the windows. He tore his coat and wrapped the material around his hands before he unleashed the wire, smiling in satisfaction when he was rewarded, on his first attempt, with the sound of shattering glass, followed by the metallic clink of the wire connecting to the window frame. He pulled and leaned against the line, to make sure it would hold his weight, and, once he was certain, climbed nimbly up the wall. He hitched one arm against the window's base as he used his fist to break out the rest of the glass, and, then, he was up, over the sash, and through the tiny portal into the fresh night air just beyond. He dropped the wire down the outside and rappelled down, making the distance in three easy bounds. Once he was safe on the wet pavement surrounding the building, concealed in its heavy shadows, Omi paused long enough to retract and replace the wire before making his escape into the misty, foggy night. He never looked back, not even when he was perched in that window, breaking out the glass serving as the last flimsy barrier to his freedom. He couldn't. If he had looked back, he would have seen Aya lying there, helpless, broken, and dying …and he wouldn't have been strong enough to leave.


	7. Chapter 7

Ken padded down the hall and stopped in front of Yohji's room. He stood there for several moments, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and listening to the old wood squeaking under him, as he stared at the door, which was ajar. Light seeped out through the small opening, cutting a pie-wedged swath through the hallway's murky darkness, and Ken took the soft yellow glow to mean Yohji was inside. He wanted to go in, wanted to talk to Yohji, maybe even make peace with the chain-smoking blonde, but he was nervous and unsure. He didn't know how to approach the older man, and he wasn't sure if Yohji would accept his friendship any longer. Ken shifted again, eliciting a new series of nervous squeaks and creaks from the floor beneath him, and debated over what he should do. They hadn't talked --- not really --- since that day in the Crazy Geisha's parking lot, the first day they had known, for sure, that Omi and Aya were gone. Ken couldn't stop blaming Aya for what had happened, and Yohji couldn't stop hating the ex-goalie for that, so the two of them had come to a tacit understanding. They wouldn't talk about it. But, since the frantic search for their missing teammates seemed to consume every waking hour as well as the few sleeping ones, their "understanding" meant they hadn't spoken ten words to each other since Aya and Omi had fallen off the face of the earth.

How long had it been now, Ken wondered as he continued to stare at the door. Five days? Six? Maybe even more since they had disappeared? He wasn't sure. He was ashamed to admit it, but he'd lost count, all the days and nights blending together into one mind-numbingly long, sleepless mass of time. But, he knew it had been a while, and, really, this whole thing with Yohji was starting to seem just a bit … silly. Still, he was too stubborn to give in, too pigheaded to try meeting the older man halfway. The ex-goalie knew his chain-smoking teammate was just as stubborn as he was. Consequently, this silent stalemate between them could go on until the end of time.

Ken summoned up the courage to lay one hand, palm flat, against the battered, scarred wood. If it just opened on its own, he reasoned, the whole thing was out of his hands. It wouldn't be like he sought Yohji out. It wouldn't be like he was admitting he was lonely, that he missed the blonde idiot's company. No, it would be more like a sign he should venture in and try talking to the older man. The door refused to budge.

"For the love of … this is fucking ridiculous," Ken muttered.

He nudged the door with his foot until it swung open about halfway. He peered around it, and, to his irritation, found an empty room. Well, "empty" wasn't exactly the right word. True to his materialistic nature, Yohji collected a lot of "stuff" --- liquor bottles, packages of cigarettes in various stages of being smoked, ashtrays, shoes, jewelry, expensive clothing, DVDs, magazines, comic books … stuff like that … the flotsam and jetsam of life, more or less --- most of which he seemed to store on the floor of his room. But, although cluttered and dusty, the room was, at the moment, uninhabited.

Ken frowned at the digital clock beside Yohji's bed. It screamed the time in tall, angry, red numbers --- five A.M. If the blonde idiot wasn't in here, sleeping, or, more likely, pacing and chain smoking, Ken wondered, where the hell was he? The ex-goalie knew Yohji had to be around here somewhere. Normally, if the older man wasn't in his room, he was out, clubbing the night away, losing himself in a temporary haze of drugs and alcohol and the sweaty press of bodies on a dance floor. But, the tall blonde hadn't been out since the night Omi and Aya had disappeared.

"That fuckhead," Ken muttered, under his breath, irritated with Yohji for not having the good grace to sit around in his room, waiting for Ken to talk to him. He exited the room, pulling the door closed with a decisive slam, which echoed through the hallway. It wasn't much, but it made the ex-goalie feel a lot better as he turned and made his way down the hall to the stairs.

"Yohji?" Ken called as he entered the kitchen. "You in here? Yohji?"

No answer, other than the room's normal, quiet, electrical hum … the kind of sound you never noticed until it was gone and the creepy-loud silence screamed at you. The kitchen was dark, with only the small light over the stove offering illumination, but the ex-goalie didn't bother reaching for the switch on the wall next to him. Ken stood in the doorway and stared around the small space for a moment or two, as if he expected the older man to pop out of one of the cabinets over the stove or under the sink. He felt his irritation growing. It was just like that shithead Yohji not to be around when a guy wanted to make peace. The ex-jock sighed, his breath exploding out in an exasperated puff of air that sounded almost like a gunshot in the nearly silent room, and crossed the kitchen to the refrigerator. He removed his half-empty Gatorade bottle and stood there for a little while, leaning his weight against the appliance's cool bulk, one arm thrown lazily across the top of its door for support, as he drank the sugary-sweet sports drink and stared at the kitchen table.

He wondered where Yohji could have gotten off to, but, the biggest part of his mind surveyed the eerie silence that had fallen over the house since Omi and Aya's disappearance. Normally, Ken would have been the first to complain about the endless noise level around the flower shop and apartment, which was ironic, considering he was the source of a good part of it. He would have thought he'd be happy to have some peace and quiet for a change, and he'd have thought he'd be particularly glad not to hear Aya's cutting, biting remarks dogging his every movement.

Ken couldn't help but grin as he heard the redhead's sarcastic, irritated voice in his head: _"What the hell're you doing, Ken? Air conditioning the whole damn house with the fridge? Were you raised in a fucking barn?" _

But this … this quiet that threatened to suffocate the breath out of him was not a good kind of silence. It wasn't peaceful. It wasn't even nice. It was uncomfortable, hollow --- like the Koneko had died on the inside, but the building didn't realize it yet, and, so, continued to stand as it always had. He missed Omi … missed seeing the young blonde at breakfast every morning, missed hearing Omi's incessant chatter about everything that had happened at school that day, missed being able to talk to the youngest Weiss about anything and everything. That went without saying, but Ken shuddered as he realized he missed hearing Aya's voice, too. He didn't know how it had happened … hadn't even realized it **_had_** happened until this moment … but, somehow, he had grown accustomed to the redhead's surly, quiet, slightly angry presence and biting, sarcastic remarks. He couldn't quite say he liked Aya. No, it was more like he'd just grown used to the fourth member of their little team, much in the same way a person grows accustomed to the stray cat that knocks over his garbage cans every night. He doesn't really want it to be part of his life any more than it wants to be included, yet, all the same, there it is … day after day, until, one day, it's gone, leaving a small, lonely, little void.

Could it be that he … missed … Aya, too?

'No,' Ken thought, shaking his head to rid it of such traitorous ideas, 'No way. No fucking way. Not that guy. Who could miss an asshole like him?'

But, the truth was, even if the ex-goalie was loathe to admit it, he'd let go of his anger toward Aya. He wasn't sure when it had happened, but, over the past several days, the realization two teammates were missing under less than ideal circumstances had finally managed to wriggle past his innate stubbornness and sink into his brain. He wanted to hate Aya for what had happened. It was so easy, hating the redhead. Aya didn't do anything to endear himself to any of them, so he was an easy target for Ken's anger on most days, but, the fact he wasn't here to defend himself … well, that just made hating and blaming him for this shitty situation that much more attractive, in Ken's book. It was a hell of a lot easier than laying the blame where he knew it truly belonged --- at his own door. He couldn't escape the truth of the matter, which was that he might have been able to prevent this whole mess if he had been there that night. If he hadn't been so lazy and eager to shirk surveillance duty, Omi and Aya might not be missing right now. He knew Yohji had to feel the same way. It was why they hadn't spoken since that night. They were both angry at themselves, but it was so much easier for Ken to hate Aya for it, and for Yohji, in turn, to hate Ken. It was a vicious, never-ending cycle that spiraled ever downward.

Ken shuddered as the kitchen's quiet seemed to close in on him like a hungry python, wrapping him in its coils and squeezing the life out of him. He slammed the refrigerator shut with enough force to make the bottles on the door shelves slide around and clink together. He needed to be out of this room. He needed to be with another human being, even if his only choice in the matter was a grouchy, bitchy, pissed-off, and generally out-of-sorts Yohji.

"Well, not in his room, the kitchen, or the living room," Ken muttered, as he started down the stairs toward the basement, giving in to the urgency he felt by clearing the steps two at a time. "That only leaves the briefing room."

* * *

Three steps from the bottom, Ken could see a soft, bluish, electronic glow emanating from the dungeon-like darkness at the end of the stairwell. He recognized that light, having come down on more occasions than he liked to admit to find Omi clacking away on his keyboard with only the soft, friendly glow of the computer monitor to illuminate the darkened room. It told him, without a doubt, he'd found the chain smoking blonde. Ken paused at the last step. Now that he had found Yohji, he wasn't sure what he should say to the man. He knew he had to break this stalemate between them, but he didn't know how.

As he stood there, wondering if he could just pretend nothing had happened, ending this fight the same way they had ended so many others, the soft, intermittent sounds of Yohji striking computer keys, punctuated by occasional, almost inaudible exclamations of "Shit!" and "Fuck me!" carried to Ken's ears. He couldn't help smiling. The mental picture of Yohji, who never did anything more with that computer, which he had nicknamed "You Bastard", than surf for porn when Omi wasn't around to stop him, trying to extract useful information from the machine struck him as funny, despite the dire situation that had driven the blonde playboy to such extreme measures.

He was still laughing under his breath as he rounded the corner and entered the briefing room. As expected, he found the tall blonde seated in front of the computer, leaning forward so his nose almost touched the monitor, in a darkened room illuminated only by the light from the screen in front of him. It gave the mission room, which was dark and cave-like even on the best of days, an eerie, bluish glow. As he approached, Ken noticed one of Omi's favorite search engines running in one corner of the monitor, while a "hacker" program, which the youngest Weiss used to break into government databases, covered the rest of the screen. The ex-goalie could see the numbers and information reflected in the dark lenses of Yohji's ever-present sunglasses. Ken shook his head in wonder at his older teammate. How that idiot could see anything in the dark behind those dark lenses was a constant source of amazement. He figured he'd never understand it, but it seemed to work out okay for Yohji, which, he guessed, was all that really mattered.

His reflection in the monitor and an errant foot on a squeaky floorboard alerted Yohji to Ken's presence. The tall blonde's emerald green eyes flicked away from the screen to travel up and down Ken's person, taking in, in that short, momentary, almost careless glance, the disheveled hair, stained, grubby white t-shirt, and filthy jeans with a rip on the left knee --- the same clothes Ken had worn for the past few days. For a moment, it looked like Yohji was going to say something. Ken could almost see the sarcastic, angry, cutting remark flash through those eyes, so expressive even when, as now, they carried a world of worry and exhaustion within them, but Yohji managed to bite the words off before they left his mouth. The ex-goalie had to admit he was impressed with the tall blonde's self-control. Had the tables been turned, he was certain he would have said something he'd regret.

Instead, Yohji's attention settled back on the screen in front of him as he leaned forward a bit more to reach for his smoldering cigarette, which rested in an overflowing ashtray on top of the monitor. He managed to grab the stick without looking at what he was doing, but he shifted the ashtray's contents in the process, spilling ash and spent cigarettes. The ash floated down to the keyboard, where it joined several other fairly large bits of debris, and one crushed-out ciggie rolled along the top of the monitor, until it fell off the edge and came to rest on the right side of the desk, next to another overflowing ashtray. Yohji took no notice of either one, other than incidentally brushing the ash aside with his first stroke at the keyboard.

Ken shook his head as he leaned over, around Yohji, and flipped on the overhead desk lamp, which rested on a shelf near the monitor. It sprang to life, throwing the immediate area into a harsh, hot, halogen glow, which only served to highlight the generally sorry state of their surroundings. A thin, gray, sooty layer of ash coated the top of the monitor, keyboard, desk, and floor around it. Spent and crushed-out cigarettes littered the area, overflowing from at least half-a-dozen ashtrays and spilling out onto the top of the monitor, over the right side of the desk, and onto the floor. Several had rolled under the desk chair, only to be crushed into the carpet under its wheels. Ken spared a moment or two for a quick survey of the rest of the room. Hard to believe, but it looked even worse than the desk area. The whole place reeked of stale smoke and even staler booze, and a thin layer of greasy, sooty ash seemed to have settled on every stationary object in the room. Liquor bottles, well over two dozen of them, littered the coffee table and floor. Most of them were empty, but a few still had something in them. Several had tipped over onto their sides, spilling their remaining contents out onto the table or the floor. Ken even saw necks of a few sticking out from under the sofa cushions. The only thing in more prominence than liquor bottles were overflowing ashtrays. It looked like Yohji had moved almost all of his sizable collection of the receptacles down into this room. Without even trying, Ken counted at least twenty scattered about, not including the six near the computer, and all of them spilled used, crushed cigarettes and ash onto the immediately surrounding flat surfaces. The small trash can near the desk spilled over with crumpled cigarette packages. The floor around the trash was covered with the crinkly, little cellophane balls, and Ken could see more on the floor under the furniture, probably having rolled there after missed attempts at hitting the too-full trash can. When Yohji was upset, he drank, smoked, and paced, and the carnage strewn about the briefing room stood as a silent testament to the tall blonde's frazzled state of mind. As Ken watched, Yohji lit up another cigarette, his fourth in just the few moments the ex-goalie had been down here, and began to huff at it as if his life depended on it, spewing each long string of smoke out into the air above his head, where it joined the already-hovering, stale, smog-like cloud that hung about the room.

Ken dropped into the extra chair near the desk, tearing his attention away from the tall blonde. He wanted to make peace with Yohji, but didn't yet know how to go about it. He did know, though, in the state of mind Yohji was in right now, staring at him was not the best thing to do. As upset, frustrated, and thoroughly pissed-off as Yohji was right now, Ken knew the slightest misstep on his part would lead to a physical confrontation that would do nothing to improve either of their humors or their quickly fracturing friendship. Instead, the ex-goalie took another long look around the room while he struggled to come up with some way of breaking the ice.

On his second pass over the space, Ken noticed the rest of the mayhem: the dozens of empty and half-full soda cans and Gatorade bottles; partially-filled, grease-stained fried chicken and pizza boxes and crumpled wrappings from half-a-dozen fast-food hamburgers gulped in a hurry --- hasty meals eaten almost as an afterthought; and at least thirty glasses in various states of emptiness, ranging from drained dry to over half full, with fuzzy black stuff growing on the liquid inside. It all attested to the fact Ken had spent almost as much time down here as Yohji since the disappearance of their teammates. Just as Yohji chain smoked and drank when he worried, Ken tended to eat. He'd already worked his way through most of the fast food restaurants in the Koneko's neighborhood, and, if they didn't find Omi and Aya soon, the ex-goalie figured he'd probably gain a good fifty or sixty pounds.

Ken closed his eyes, shutting out the pit-like chaos of the briefing room for a few seconds, as he thought about the rest of the apartment. He felt his stomach fall in dismay as he realized this room was only the very tip of the iceberg. There was more of the same all over the apartment, and Ken couldn't help but wonder what Aya would do when he finally came home to find such an unholy mess. Truthfully, at this point, Ken thought the only thing that could improve this place was if they decided to just take a match to it and be done with it. It was almost too filthy to clean … almost past the point of no return. He could just hear Aya blowing a gasket over this squalor.

Ken sighed, bringing Yohji's attention from the computer to him. The tall blonde gave his brunette teammate another long, appraising look before lighting yet another cigarette and blowing more smoke into the noxious cloud around them.

"Not sleeping?" Yohji asked, directing his attention back to the monitor and the blinking program in front of him. His voice was rough and gravelly with a hard, bitter edge to it, born of too much time spent in this futile, desperate search, too many hours spent blaming himself for what had happened, too much booze, too much smoking, and not nearly enough food or sleep.

Ken was surprised at the trembling edge to his teammate's voice. It almost sounded as if Yohji's words would break as they fell from his mouth and struck the carpet, brittle as old glass. He couldn't remember ever hearing that much exhaustion, that much hopelessness, that much fear, crowding Yohji's voice. Yohji was the one who joked his way through everything, no matter how serious, and he wasn't ever afraid of anything. At least, Ken had always thought so. Now, though, hearing the undertone in the tall blonde's words, the brunette had to wonder. Maybe, all this time, he hadn't known Yohji at all. Maybe, the chain smoking blonde had been hiding his fear behind the jokes all along, and none of them had realized it.

'No,' Ken thought, as he studied his partner, taking in the matted, greasy, disheveled hair swept back into an untidy ponytail, the clothes Yohji had been wearing for at least the past three days, the ashy gray pallor to his skin, the dark, bruise-like circles and exhausted green eyes that even those sunglasses couldn't hide, the way his hand trembled as he worked the keyboard or picked up a cigarette. 'That's not true. Aya realized it.'

Ken couldn't help but think back on the past several months, since Aya had joined the team. He remembered how surprised he had been to see Yohji take up with the unfriendly, stoic redhead. Within a month or two of Aya's arrival, Yohji had become the swordsman's almost-constant companion, something Aya had protested, but, even so, hadn't seemed to mind all that much. Ken thought back now and remembered all the times he had seen the two of them together, Yohji shadowing Aya on deliveries, or on some personal errand; Aya accompanying the blonde on grocery runs or other household tasks; or just finding them sitting together in the common living room, Yohji watching a movie and Aya reading in a far corner. He had always thought it odd, but, now, Ken realized, for the first time, Aya had been the only one to, really and truly, understand Yohji. Aya had seen through the tall blonde's act and accepted him for who and what he was --- a human being, a man who gets scared and doesn't want to show it, a man who hates himself for what he does and who he has become.

"Hey … earth to Ken? You still awake over there?"

Ken blinked back into awareness to find Yohji giving him an irritated glare that, for all the exhaustion written in his eyes and face, had lost none of its edge. He smiled sheepishly, and ducked his head in an embarrassed gesture, as he ran his fingers through his hair and chuckled.

"Uh … yeah … yeah, I'm awake. Just … um … just, you know … thinking," Ken replied, a hint of nervous laughter coloring his words.

Yohji took another long drag off his cigarette, and snorted in irritation, sending two streams of white smoke from his nostrils, as he muttered, "Hnh. I'll be sure to alert the fucking media." He turned around to glare at Ken again. It looked like he was about to make another cutting remark, but, instead, he just sighed, shook his head, and returned to staring at the monitor in front of him, occasionally, plucking at a key here and there.

"Not sleeping?" Yohji repeated, this time, without looking back at his brunette teammate.

Ken jumped, startled by the sudden intrusion of Yohji's gravelly voice into the silence that had fallen around them, and shook his head as he replied, "Nah. You neither, huh?"

Yohji sighed and leaned back in the chair, tilting it backward until it creaked in protest. He removed his sunglasses and tossed them onto the desk, where they landed in the middle of a pile of spent cigarettes, kicking up a little puff of ash and knocking several of the butts onto the floor. The tall blonde ran his hands over his face and sighed again, a hollow, exhausted sound that twisted at Ken's stomach, and, somehow, almost made the ex-goalie want to cry. Then, Yohji stared at the ceiling above his head for several long moments. Ken figured their conversation was over. It hadn't been much, but, at least the brunette knew the stalemate between them had been broken, and peace had been restored. That, at least, was a relief.

Just when Ken had about decided Yohji was done talking, the tall blonde said, almost under his breath, as if he wasn't aware he was even saying the words out loud, "Fucking house is too damn quiet. Who the fuck can sleep like that?"

Ken shrugged and took another sip of Gatorade. He didn't know what to say in response to Yohji's question. The house was too quiet, too dead-feeling. It was what had driven him down here tonight, in the first place, seeking companionship from the only person left to him. Finally, after several minutes, Ken asked, "So, find anything?"

Yohji sighed and leaned forward once more. His fingers automatically grabbed for his smoldering cigarette, and he finished it off in one last, long drag. The tall blonde blew the smoke out into the air with an angry hiss before stubbing the spent stick out in the nearest ashtray. He crushed it with angry, stabbing motions that spilled a torrent of ash out onto the desk. Some of it drifted lazily down to the floor, and still more of it landed on Yohji's black jeans. Ken found his attention riveted on those floating embers, but the tall blonde ignored them in favor of grabbing for the pack on the left side of the desk, next to the keyboard. He shook out one stick, and peered into the little box, hissing in irritation and crushing the pack at discovering it was his last one. He tossed the crumpled package in the general direction of the trash can. It hit the rim and fell to the floor, bouncing twice before coming to rest a short distance away, just one more crinkly, cellophane ball added to the mess.

"No," Yohji finally answered, taking a long drag from the ciggie.

It was so quiet in the room that Ken could hear Yohji's cigarette crackling as the tobacco lit up and turned into glowing embers. The blonde held the smoke in his lungs for a moment or two before tilting his head back toward the ceiling and letting the breath out in a long, hissing sigh. He put the glowing stick back in his mouth before, once again, running his fingers through grease-matted hair, an action which freed the long locks from their elastic prison. His hair tie fell to the floor behind his chair with a soft, little plop, but Yohji didn't make any move to retrieve it.

"No," the tall blonde repeated. "Fuck! If they had dropped off the face of the earth, it'd be easier to find them." He sat up straight and glared at the computer, as if this failure, this utter lack of resolution to their current predicament, was the machine's fault. He banged it with the flat of his hand, muttering, "You bastard. You fucking bastard. Where the fuck are all the answers now, huh?" He shook his head in frustration and took another long drag from the cigarette before continuing, "This guy … he's a ghost. A fucking ghost. Less, even. I've found more information on us, Weiss, and Kritiker than the fucker who has them." Another rough jerk of fingers through his hair, the only way he had of physically indicating his frustration at the moment, and Yohji said, his voice soft, lost-sounding, "They've been gone … what? Three days … four … five … a week? Doesn't really matter. It seems like so long … so fucking long. Maybe … maybe we should just face the fact they're dead." His voice sounded so hollow, so exhausted, so defeated. "Shit … who the fuck'm I kidding? They're probably dead already."

Ken stared at Yohji, shocked to hear those words from the tall blonde, surprised at the hopelessness and defeat he heard in his partner's voice. He wanted to tell Yohji it wasn't true, wanted to tell the tall blonde they couldn't give up, they couldn't stop looking until they found their teammates, even if it was only to bring two bodies back home. He wanted to tell Yohji Omi and Aya deserved at least that much. He wanted to say these things … all of these things … but he just couldn't find the words. He understood the despair and hopelessness, the helplessness, he heard in Yohji's voice --- understood them because he felt it, too.

His mind ran back over everything they'd been through in the past several days, since Omi and Aya had dropped out of sight. They had gone back to the Crazy Geisha every night since the abduction, but the club had always been closed. In their minds, that cemented the connection between the night spot, the killings, and their teammates' disappearance. Another day or two of Internet research had led them to information indicating the Geisha was owned by some British conglomerate, but, after that, the wheels had come off their little information wagon. They hadn't been able to find anything more on the club's ownership, or track down the name of any one person connected to it. Kritiker had supplied a list of Crazy Geisha employees, and he and Yohji had questioned each and every one of them --- some several times. But the employees were a dead end. Several of them were involved in less-than-savory things, but none of them were connected to the killings or the kidnapping. Coming up with a complete list of customers had been next to impossible, as the club was, mostly, a cash-based business. They had managed to scrounge up a list of credit card customers from the night Omi and Aya had disappeared, and they had dutifully tracked down and questioned each and every one of those people, too. In their "downtime" --- mostly at night, when neither of them could sleep, but they couldn't question witnesses or physically chase down potential suspects --- they had taken turns surfing the Internet and using Omi's various hacking programs in an effort to gather more information about the British conglomerate or on the other victims, in the hopes something might lead them to their missing teammates' location. But, so far, everything had turned out to be nothing more than a series of frustrating dead ends. Still, until tonight, neither he nor Yohji had been able to bring themselves to voice their worst fear --- that Omi and Aya were dead --- out loud. Hearing the words fall, heavy and final in the room's silence --- it almost sounded to Ken like the slamming of a crypt lid, as if, by saying them, Yohji would make the worst possible scenario come true.

Ken sighed. He still didn't know what to say to Yohji, but he couldn't just let the tall blonde's words hang in the air like that without responding. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and staring at the floor, as he said, "C'mon, Yohji. Don't give up now. We can't … we can't give up on them. If … if it was the other way around… if we were the ones who were gone, they'd never give up. Not until they found us. You know that."

"Yeah," Yohji muttered. He took another drag from his cigarette, finishing it off and crushing it out in the nearest overflowing ashtray, spilling another stream of ash onto the desk, keyboard, and carpet.

"You know," Ken said, as he watched the embers drift downward, like little, gray snowflakes, "Omi doesn't allow smoking around his computer."

Yohji snorted, a harsh, derisive sound, and shook his head as he opened a new package of cigarettes and pulled out the first stick. He had to flick the lighter three times before it finally lit. He sucked on the ciggie until the end glowed a warm red, and then blew the smoke out in a long, sighing breath, all over the computer.

"Yeah, well, if Omi doesn't like it, he can just get his happy ass home and make me stop," Yohji snapped. He blew out another stream of smoke, and looked over at Ken, a crooked grin spreading over his face, despite the exhaustion, worry, and fear also written there. "You ever eat or drink anything besides that damn green crap?"

Ken stared at the now-empty Gatorade bottle he still held clutched in his hand, and smiled back. He leaned forward a bit more and quickly, before the tall blonde could stop him, flicked Yohji's ear with his fingers, which caused the older man to jump in surprise, as he replied, "You ever do anything besides smoke?"

Yohji shook his head, running his fingers through his hair and working out a few of the larger tangles. "No way, brother. Smoking is life."

"Hnh," Ken replied, leaning back in his chair and twisting around to survey the room. "That might be so, but … well, this place is a pit. I mean … maybe this room is the worst, but the whole fucking apartment is like this. Everything smells like smoke, cigarette butts and ash all over the computer desk and floor in here, and in the kitchen --- in the sink, on the floor, even on the table. I even found holes burned in the carpet outside Aya's room. The kitchen sink's full of dirty dishes and empty booze and Gatorade bottles. I even tripped over a liquor bottle in the bathroom last night. I almost cracked my head on the sink! I can't remember the last time we cleaned off the table in the kitchen. I sat a glass down on there yesterday, and it stuck. Can you believe that shit? It actually stuck to the fucking tabletop!" He reached upward, toward the desk lamp, and removed a sock draped across it. He held it up in front of his face for emphasis as he continued, "There're clothes all over the damn place. I even saw a pair of socks in the refrigerator!"

Yohji waited patiently as Ken ran down his litany of household sins. When the ex-goalie paused for breath, the tall blonde shrugged, flicked some ash off the end of his cigarette, and asked, "And your point is?"

"Well," Ken replied, shifting in his chair and contemplating the floor near his feet with a sheepish, almost embarrassed expression, "Aya's gonna blow a fucking gasket when he gets home and finds the place like this. I mean … he's gonna kill us. It's like … it's like we're just proving to him we're a couple of fuck-ups … like the whole fucking place just falls apart without him here."

Yohji stared at his brunette teammate for a few minutes, before bursting out in laughter. It started as a snicker, then grew into a giggle, and continued until it morphed into a full-blown belly laugh. The tall blonde threw his head back, slid down a bit in his chair, both arms flung over its sides and cigarette held loosely in one hand, and guffawed until tears ran down his cheeks, at which point he paused for a moment to wipe them away, before laughing again. He finally brought himself under control and managed to stop laughing, only to start all over again the moment he looked over and saw Ken's exasperated expression.

"Look!" Ken yelled over Yohji's laughter, wincing at the squeaky tone in his own voice. He slapped the blonde lightly on the top of his head, and hissed, his face twisted in an irritated scowl that only served to fuel Yohji's hysterical laughter, "It's not funny, you asshole. This is serious. I mean … well, you know what a fucking neat freak Aya is, and … well, he's scary when he's pissed. You can handle it, maybe … but, some of us …"

"Aya already knows we're fuck-ups," Yohji said, cutting Ken off in mid-sentence. The tall blonde managed to bring his laughter under control, and he sighed, a satisfied, relaxed sound, before continuing, in a serious tone, "Look, I'd be happy to sit through about a hundred of Aya's bitch fits right now … just to hear his voice. Just so I'd know he was alive."

Ken's sarcastic, biting reply was cut off before it even started by the angry, urgent jangling of the telephone. The former soccer star sighed and reached around Yohji's back to answer it. At least, his fingers fumbled in the air where it should have been, only to find it inexplicably missing. Ken stared at the empty space for a few moments. The phone was always there. He couldn't ever remember it being anywhere else, and his brain struggled to catch up with reality and come to terms with the knowledge their phone was officially MIA.

"Where the fuck is the phone?" Ken hissed, by the time the third ring had sounded. He prodded the back of Yohji's head with his elbow in an angry, rough gesture to get the tall blonde's attention.

"Huh?" Yohji replied, pulling his attention away from the computer monitor and staring around with a lost, empty expression, as if he wasn't aware of the harsh, angry, trilling that seemed to expand until it overwhelmed the litter-filled space around them.

"The phone," Ken prompted with another angry elbow jab, as the tenth ring sounded out.

"Oh … uh … somewhere," Yohji replied, waving his hand behind his head to indicate the room at large. He turned his attention back to the monitor, ignoring the scathing glare Ken directed at him.

"Great …. Just fucking great," Ken muttered under his breath.

He rose from his chair and scanned the room, taking in the general chaos with a sense of urgency and panic, brought on by the twentieth angry ring. Whoever it was wasn't going to hang on forever, and Ken was convinced he wouldn't be able to find the telephone before the mysterious caller hung up. Suddenly, a flash of inspiration flared through his panic-numbed brain.

"The cord!" Ken yelled at the back of Yohji's head. He hissed in irritation when the tall blonde, who was ignoring the ringing phone altogether, failed to respond. "Where is the cord?" Ken snapped to the background cacophony of the phone's continued ringing.

Yohji shrugged, prompting Ken to mutter, "Fucking idiot," as he began to root around under all the trash, ashtrays, spent cigarettes, soot, and discarded clothing piled up on top of the desk, in the vicinity of the phone's last known location. He had to work around Yohji to do it, though, as the tall blonde made no move to either help with the search or get out of the way. Instead, he remained seated in Ken's way, eyes glued to the computer screen, where the hacking program was almost fifty percent finished with its work. Ken grunted with the effort of reaching around the blonde's much taller frame, and, finally, after several seconds of stretching and reaching, and a series of grunts and muttered, unintelligible curses, he succeeded in finding the cord, which had been entombed under two of the overstuffed ashtrays, a sizable pile of ash and spent cigarettes, and another dirty sock and torn T-shirt

With a small cry of triumph, Ken yanked at the cord, freeing it and sending a deluge of debris plummeting toward the desk below. Yohji yelped in surprise as one of the ashtrays bounced in front of him, scattering its contents on the keyboard, the desk, and Yohji's hands and jeans before plummeting to the floor, where it bounced twice and then came to rest at a crazy angle, tilted against one leg of the coffee table.

Ken shrugged and gave Yohji a sheepish grin as the tall blonde turned around to glare at him before blowing the fine, gray dust off the keyboard, brushing most of it off his pants, and, almost immediately, turning his attention back to the computer in front of him.

The ex-goalie couldn't be bothered with Yohji's irritation right now, though. He was on a mission --- a phone-finding mission. He continued to pull at the cord, unearthing it from various piles of trash, dirty dishes, and clothing as he followed it almost completely around the room. He couldn't help but wonder why any of them had ever purchased such a long cord for the damn phone. He would have sworn it could circle this room at least twice, but, maybe that was just the panic and frustration of not being able to answer a ringing phone that was clamoring for attention. He finally got to the end of the cord and located the errant telephone --- buried under the middle sofa cushion, next to a half-eaten sandwich with some questionable green stuff growing on it, a half-full bottle of Jack Daniels, and a pair of boxer shorts.

Ken frowned at the odd assortment as he tossed the cushion aside. The phone was lying in close proximity to all the items, and he really didn't want to touch any of them. He couldn't help but wonder how long the sandwich had been there. He was pretty sure it had to have ended up there long before their teammates' disappearance, at least, judging from the amount of fuzzy green on it. It looked like it had been turkey, in a previous life. As for the boxer shorts … Ken shook his head firmly. No … he didn't even want to think about those. If he let his mind wander down any of the trails to which those boxers led, he'd never be able to sit on that sofa again.

Finally, the ex-goalie sighed in defeat. He had to answer the phone, which meant he'd have to touch at least one, and, possibly all, of the items hidden beneath the cushion. The liquor bottle was the least objectionable of the three, but it was lying right next to the boxers. He couldn't move the bottle without touching the underwear, so, Ken shrugged and grabbed the sandwich. He resisted the urge to gag as his hand brushed against the fuzzy green growth, and tossed the food item over his shoulder. He heard it land with a squishy plop in a pile of Yohji's used-cigarette-pack cellophane balls, and he glanced down at his hand. He could have sworn he felt something crawling on it, but there wasn't anything there. Shaking his head, Ken succeeded in retrieving the phone at about its fortieth ring.

"Yeah … hello?" Ken snapped upon bringing the receiver up to his ear.

He listened for a few minutes without saying anything, and, then, he began to jump around and snap his fingers at Yohji to get the tall blonde's attention. After twenty or thirty finger snaps, the older man twisted around in his chair to stare, dumfounded, at Ken as he wondered what in the holy hell had gotten into the idiotic jock.

"Okay … we'll be there soon," Ken muttered into the phone, a sense of urgency mixed with the relief Yohji heard in his voice. "Just … just stay there. Stay out of sight, and don't move, okay? Just … just wait there." He grabbed Yohji's arm and pulled, dragging the unwilling blonde out of his chair, even while he was still saying, "Yeah, yeah, okay. Just wait there. We're already on our way."

Yohji had just enough time to make a wild grab for his sunglasses before he found himself pulled across the room and toward the exit.

The conversation over, Ken dropped the telephone without bothering to hang it up. A nasal, recorded voice came on the line, telling them that, if they wanted to make a call, they should hang up and try again. Ken ignored it and continued to pull his confused, protesting partner toward the stairs, chattering, "Come on, already! Get your ass in gear! We've gotta go!"

At the base of the stairs, Yohji managed to jerk his arm out of Ken's iron grip and snapped, "Like Hell! I'm not going anywhere but back into that damn chat room, and I'm staying there until I find some fucking new leads!"

"Fuck the chat room, you idiot!" Ken yelled, practically dancing with excitement, his eyes shining from the adrenaline surging through his veins. He had the presence of mind to realize Yohji was no longer following him, and he stopped moving up the stairs for a moment and did an excited little jig, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, as he explained, "Omi! That was … It was Omi! On the phone! He's at some all-night coffee shop downtown. He wants us to come get him!"

"Shit! Why the fuck didn't you say so?" Yohji snapped, grabbing up his car keys and tailing Ken up the stairs.

Some of the ex-goalie's excitement had infected the chain smoking blonde. Yohji took the stairs two at a time in his hurry. He tripped halfway up, but he didn't mind. He regained his balance, and couldn't help laughing at his own clumsiness. He couldn't believe it. His prayers had finally been answered. They were all right. They were found, and they were all right. Finally, his family would be back together again. Suddenly, the fact Ken hadn't been forthcoming with very many details managed to work its way through Yohji's excitement-muddled brain.

Yohji paused near the top of the stairs and called after his brunette teammate's quickly-retreating back, "He's okay, right?"

"Huh?" Ken replied, "Yeah … sure. I'm … I'm sure he is. He didn't say, but, he sounded fine. Maybe a little upset, but … well, that's to be expected, right? Sure … he's fine. He called, didn't he?"

Yohji felt his sense of relief flee before the all-too-familiar feelings of fear and dread. Damn. He should have known it was too good to be true. The tall blonde reached the top of the stairs and crossed the kitchen.

He felt his stomach clench in fear as he exited their apartment into the cool night air and pulled the door closed behind him. When he caught up with Ken, who was dancing an excited jig next to Seven, Yohji asked, a suspicious tone to his voice, "Aya was with him, right?"

Ken stared at Yohji, as if he'd suddenly forgotten how to speak Japanese and couldn't understand the tall blonde's words.

Yohji paused, keys poised above the lock on Seven's driver side door, scowled at the ex-goalie, and repeated, "Right?"

Ken shrugged, a gesture that immediately pissed Yohji off. It was as if the ex-goalie felt Aya's safety was of no importance whatsoever, now that he knew Omi was safe and sound, waiting for them to pick him up. The tall blonde's eyes narrowed in an icy glare as he thought if they didn't have to go pick Omi up right away, he would have liked to beat the crap out of the stupid jock. Yohji could feel it. He and Ken were going to have words --- serious words --- over this whole Aya thing.

The brunette looked up to see his partner spearing him with an imitation of Aya's death glare that was convincing enough to make his blood congeal. He shrugged again, unaware of the effect that simple gesture had on his teammate's all-too-brittle nerves, and said, "He didn't say … Sure. I mean, he has to be, right? Why wouldn't he be?" He waved his hand through the air, as if to dismiss Yohji's concerns and ducked into the car as the tall blonde clicked the locks open.

Yohji slid into the driver's seat, his stomach twisted in fear, and a familiar sense of dread settling over him and overpowering his brief elation at finding at least one of his missing teammates alive and well.

* * *

Omi shifted nervously and shrank back into the shadows near the coffee house's front door. It was a tricky business --- getting close enough to the light thrown from the building's interior to feel safe, and, yet, remaining hidden in the shadows so none of the patrons noticed him. He hated cowering out here in the darkness like a cornered rat, but it couldn't be helped. Much as he wanted to, he didn't dare enter the brightly lit restaurant. He hungered for the comforting feel of a room full of people around him, even if they were complete strangers. He longed to bask in the washed-out, fluorescent lighting, which made everything seem older and staler than it was, and to sit anonymously among the clatter of chipped dishes and the buzz of conversation that he knew filled the place. But, he didn't dare. His clothing was ragged, torn, and encrusted with what looked like a whole lifetime's worth of dirt. That might not have been so bad --- might have raised a few eyebrows, but nothing too serious. It was the blood that kept Omi out here, hiding in the shadows when his soul longed for the light. He was covered, head-to-toe, in Aya's blood, and, while a dirty, street-urchin-looking kid might not draw an undue amount of attention, Omi was smart enough to realize, even through the blind panic that had taken hold of his senses, a blood-soaked kid would warrant a call to the police. And, that was something he couldn't chance.

A particularly loud burst of laughter caused the young blonde to start from his thoughts. He tried to shrink back into the shadows even more, only to be stopped by the damp brick wall at his back, and nervously scanned the latest wave of incoming patrons. Omi thought he had gotten far enough away from the warehouse district that Harrister wouldn't find him, even if he did return to the building that night. Still, he couldn't seem to shake the mind-numbing fear that the next person who walked by would be the crazy asshole. It was like a nightmare --- one of those where the guy in the hockey mask chases you to hell and back … only Omi knew he was awake. Somehow, not being able to wake up from this whole mess made it seem that much worse. Life was often so much crueler than nightmares --- if anyone should know that, Omi figured he should. He was Weiss, after all, had been Weiss for so long he could barely even remember being anything else.

He wasn't afraid for himself. Not that he wasn't almost stupidly grateful to be out of Harrister's clutches, but he was really afraid for Aya --- afraid that crazy asshole would take his escape attempt out of Aya's hide. And, Omi had to admit he was afraid the psychotic Englishman would find him, drag him back, and make him watch while he punished Aya for this little foray into freedom. The boy knew it was selfish to feel that way, but, right now, he didn't care. It was the way he felt, and it was a strong enough emotion to keep him hugging the shadows and expecting Harrister to show up at any moment.

Omi sank back into the dark as the small group of coffee house patrons --- three truck drivers and two women of rather questionable employment, from the looks of them --- entered the brightly-lit restaurant. The boy sighed and, noticing a medium-sized chunk of asphalt near the toe of his left sneaker, gave it a vicious kick. The impromptu missile sailed out into the open darkness of the parking lot, and Omi winced when, a few seconds later, he heard the sound of shattering glass. He shrugged, glancing around to make sure no one had seen him, and slid down the coffee shop's wall to sit in a crumpled, little heap. Within moments, he felt the moisture from the brick at his back seeping through his coat. It made him shiver, but he didn't bother moving to a different position. It wouldn't have mattered. He was cold from the inside out, and that was the kind of chill you couldn't warm away, no matter what you did. Omi pulled his knees up to his chest, encircling his legs with his arms, and rested his chin on the twin mountains, looking all the world like a lost, dirty, homeless kid hoping for some spare change or a quick handout of food.

He hadn't realized it until now, but he was mad --- so mad, he could probably spit nails, if he really tried. He was pissed at so many things --- himself for his part in getting them into this mess, in the first place, and for leaving Aya behind like he had; Aya for making him go; Harrister, for the smug, sneering tone of voice, his self-confident attitude, and the fact he was a homicidal maniac bent on destroying Aya with prejudice; life, in general, for turning out in the shitty way it had and forcing them all into this godforsaken job that slowly robbed them of their souls and humanity; Fate for tossing him and Aya into Harrister's clutches. He was so fucking sick and tired of being sick and tired that he almost couldn't stand it. He was so sick and tired of having to play the bad hand he'd been dealt, of having to scrape and squeeze by on wishes and prayers to stay alive, and he was damn sick and tired of being afraid. He was fed up with Harrister always having the upper hand in this little game, and he couldn't wait to turn the tables on that asshole. Omi just hoped he'd get the chance to do it before the crazy English bastard killed Aya.

"Where the fuck are those idiots?" the young blonde muttered. He wondered how long it had been since he had called home. Five … ten minutes, maybe? Not that long, but, still, he was ready for Yohji and Ken to be here, already. "What the hell is taking them so fucking long?" Omi asked the moisture-laden night air. He sighed and buried his face in his knees. He couldn't get the image of Aya, lying broken, bleeding, and helpless, on that dusty concrete floor, out of his mind, and, now, he could feel the tears beginning to gather at the corners of his eyes as his blind rage gave way to anguish and despair. "I … I never shoulda left him," he whispered.

Finally, after an eternity of lifetimes strung together and passed in this dark, wet doorway, Omi saw Yohji's car pull into the parking lot. He couldn't remember ever being so glad to see anyone in his whole, young life, and, as he caught his first glimpse of his teammates' faces through the windshield, he felt his composure slipping. Seeing them made him think of home and safety, and that made him want to break down into the hitching sobs that had been trying to escape him ever since he had left Aya. He took a deep breath and choked it all back down --- all the fear, all the longing, all the thoughts of home and safety, all the little boy, childish feelings. He did what they all did; he pulled an emotionless façade of courage around his crumbling heart. Now wasn't the time for fear, anguish, and tears. Now wasn't the time to fall apart. Maybe later, after they'd found Aya, after he knew the redhead was safe, he could give in to the trauma of what he'd been through and allow himself to break down. Now, he couldn't be Omi. He had to be Bombay. Bombay was Weiss. Bombay never feared, never cried. When you were Weiss, you didn't need childish things like feelings and emotions. You kept going until the job was done, no matter the cost, and that was it.

Once he had managed to regain his composure, Omi rose and made his way out into the parking lot, to the far, rather dark corner in which Yohji had parked. He waited, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, on the driver's side, while Yohji turned off the car. Ken bounded out of the passenger side and was about to slide across Seven's hood when a glare from his tall blonde teammate stopped him, cold, in his tracks.

"Your ass is grass if it touches my paint job," Yohji snapped as he shoved open his door and unfolded his long, lean body out of Seven's rather cramped confines.

Ken's eyes narrowed in irritation, and he glared back at Yohji, but, to the chain-smoking playboy's satisfaction, he proceeded around the car at a much more sedate pace. Yohji gave Omi a smug smirk and patted at the front of his shirt, fumbling in the pocket for his ever-present package of cigarettes. He located the little box, shook out one of the sticks, and shoved it in his mouth, pulling out his lighter and flicking it to life in almost the same, smooth movement. The flame flared, bright against the murky half-light thrown by the one overhead lamp near Yohji's chosen parking space, the flickering orange tongue reflected in the tall blonde's sunglasses. He shoved the lighter home into the back pocket of his jeans as he slammed the driver's-side door closed with a nudge of his hip. Then, he leaned back against the car, resting his rear end on the front fender and regarded Omi with a crooked grin, which seemed to start from the cigarette he held clamped between his lips and lazily spread outward to the edges of his face.

It was an expression so familiar it almost made Omi homesick, and the young blonde could feel his composure, once again, beginning to slip. He couldn't crater now. He had to hold it together long enough to rescue Aya. He had promised the suffering redhead he'd be strong, at least until then, but, at the first sight of his two teammates, the first glimpse and feeling of "home", the first sign of a light at the end of what had been a very long, very dark tunnel, he already felt that resolve slipping. He wanted to run to Yohji and Ken, throw himself into their arms, collapse into a sobbing, emotionally distraught mess, and have them tell him everything was going to be okay. Omi shook his head, struggling to choke back his emotions, to pull Bombay's icy calm façade around his crumbling heart and trembling soul. He cursed his weakness, his frailty, and his ever-annoying, childish tendency toward becoming emotional at the most inopportune times. He wasn't a child any more … maybe, hadn't ever been one … and, he couldn't afford to act like one now. Aya was counting on him. Aya had remained strong, despite everything, for his sake, and Omi knew he had to do whatever it took to save the swordsman. He owed Aya that, and it was a debt he was determined to repay.

"Why the hell can you rub your ass all over the car and I can't?" Ken asked, his whining tone snapping Omi out of his thoughts and bringing his attention back to the here-and-now, where his two teammates seemed on the verge of a physical altercation.

"My paint job, my ass," Yohji snapped back, a slight snarl coloring the edges of his words.

Omi rolled his eyes at the heavens, as if they could tell him why he had to be saddled with these two idiots who seemed intent on supplying bad comic relief during particularly tense moments of his life. The young blonde wondered if Ken and Yohji were punishment for the bad karma he'd built up in a previous life, or for the black cloud of karmic energy that must be tailing him in this one. He should have felt sorry for his two friends, who were now arguing back and forth, like children, about whose ass was bigger and would do the most damage to Seven's paint job. They both looked like they'd been through the ringer.

Yohji looked like he hadn't slept in days. Even behind the sunglasses, Omi could make out dark, bruise-like circles under the older man's eyes, and his hair, usually so meticulously clean and well kept, was greasy and matted. The long locks hung limply around Yohji's face, and his clothes were wrinkled and stained, as if he'd been wearing them for some time now. If it had looked like he'd slept, Omi would have guessed the tall blonde had slept in his clothes, the way he sometimes did when he came home in the early morning hours after a night of heavy partying. His skin had an unhealthy, almost gray pallor to it, and his hands trembled, indicating he'd been putting little into his body other than caffeine, nicotine, and alcohol.

Ken looked almost as bad. The ex-goalie had shoved a cap onto his hair, but Omi could see grease-matted, unruly locks jutting out from under it in various directions. His clothing --- jeans and a previously-white, pocket tee --- were covered in dirt and various stains, and he looked as if he'd gained at least five pounds, indicating he'd been worrying in his own way.

Just as Yohji snapped, "I know you are, but what am I?" in response to Ken calling him a fatass, Omi decided it was more than time to end this squabbling and get down to more serious business. Obviously, without Aya here, someone else was going to have to take charge.

"Shut the hell up!" Omi hissed, stepping out of the small patch of shadow that had concealed him and moving into the light, closer to Seven and his bickering teammates.

Yohji and Ken stopped fighting. Almost as if they were one person, their heads swiveled toward Omi, and they stared at him as he moved into the yellowish light, expressions of worried, shocked, surprise written across their faces. At first, Omi thought they had forgotten he was even standing here, but, then, he remembered he was covered in blood, and figured that had to be the source of his teammates' shock and concern.

"Where the fuck have you guys been? What the holy hell took you so long to get here, anyhow?" Omi snapped, deciding to take the offensive in an attempt to shrug off the inevitable interrogation about the blood on his clothes. He knew it was a futile effort, but he had to try. They just didn't have time for any of that crap right now.

"Well, excuse the fuck outta me," Yohji snapped back. He finished his cigarette off and flicked it onto the ground, grinding it out under his boot. He straightened up and ran his hand through matted greasy hair, a frustrated gesture that spoke of worlds of irritation and nerves frayed to the breaking point and beyond. "I'm so sorry if our tardy arrival is keeping you from some important appointment or some shit like that," he drawled.

He pulled another cigarette from his pack and lit it as he opened the door and sank into the driver's seat, his long, lanky legs stretched out in front of him. He gave Omi a pointed look, which told the kid, in no uncertain terms, he wasn't a bit fooled by the young blonde's little act, and grabbed the hem of the boy's tee-shirt, using it to pull Omi toward him, further into the light. He corralled the young blonde between his outstretched legs, ignoring Omi's irritated grunts of protest, and began lifting the kid's shirt, checking his body for injuries. Ken, his argument with Yohji forgotten, came around the car and stood ready to assist the older man.

"Cut that shit out!" Omi snapped, slapping away his teammate's hands. "I'm fine, you fucking morons! We don't have time for this shit!"

"Look," Yohji snapped, slapping the younger blonde lightly on the side of his head, "How can you be fine? You're covered in blood. What the fuck happened to you, anyhow?" He paused in his search for hidden injuries long enough to take the cigarette out of his mouth and blow a long stream of smoke into the air above their heads, before continuing, in an exhausted, irritated tone, "And don't get fucking pissy with me, you little shit. It's not like we've been sitting around having a grand fucking time while you guys have been gone, you know. We've been worried sick!" He glanced around, and asked, "Where the hell is Aya, anyhow? He in the coffee shop?"

Ken, his face a mask of barely-concealed panic, knelt next to Omi and shoved Yohji's hands out of the way, as he took over the task of lifting the kid's clothing with trembling hands and searching the boy for wounds. Omi continued to mutter curses and swat at the hands trying to assist him, insisting he was fine, but the older men ignored him.

"What the fuck happened to you, Omi?" Ken hissed, half under his breath, as if he didn't realize he was saying the words aloud, "Are you hurt? Where's all this blood coming from?" He lifted his head, to glance around the immediate area, and continued, "That stupid son-of-a-bitch Aya. Where is that fucking asshole, anyhow? When I get my hands on him … fuck! For letting this happen to you … what the fuck was he thinking? Fuck … he was point on this … he was supposed to protect you."

Yohji saw the rage flicker through Omi's eyes --- the smallest, briefest glimmer of what was to come. He moved to place himself between Omi and Ken, but he wasn't fast enough. One second, Omi was standing there, bitching and complaining, but, yet, submitting to Ken's ministrations. The next, he was a spitting, hissing, compact ball of rage. He threw himself onto Ken, bringing the startled ex-goalie to the ground, and began clawing, kicking, punching, biting, pulling hair --- anything and everything he could do to inflict some kind of damage --- all the while screaming a stream of garbled, almost unintelligible curses at the top of his lungs.

Ken couldn't fight back. He didn't want to hurt the younger blonde, and Omi's attack had taken the ex-goalie by surprise. Almost before he realized it, he found himself on the ground, wondering how he had come to be lying there on the cold, damp asphalt with his best friend a crushing weight on his chest, spitting venomous curses at him, his face twisted in a vicious snarl of rage. The young blonde's blind rage was the only thing that protected Ken from serious injury, as most of Omi's punches swung wide of their mark.

Yohji stared, stunned, as Omi continued to do his level best to take Ken down, with prejudice. He had seen the kid's change of mood coming, but it had happened so quickly, even Yohji had been taken by surprise. He couldn't imagine what had gotten into their youngest teammate. He'd never seen the boy fly off the handle like this. It was almost as if they had found some sort of demon seed, instead of their missing friend. Yet, another part of Yohji's mind --- the part that wanted to beat the crap out of Ken for the ex-goalie's shitty, irritating attitude in the past few days --- considered letting the kid's tirade continue. The tall blonde did let it go on for a few minutes, smoking his cigarette to the accompanying background noises of Omi's screamed curses, and Ken's loud, grunting protests. Finally, with a sigh, he ground the stick out under his boot and shoved off the side of the car to a standing position, crossing the small space separating him from his struggling teammates in one long stride. Much as he would have liked to let Omi beat the ever-loving shit out of Ken, Yohji knew he couldn't let this continue for much longer. For some reason, the kid was crazed with rage at the moment, but, if he succeeded in injuring Ken, Yohji knew Omi would regret it for the rest of his life. And, the scuffle, along with the stream of screamed curses spewing from the boy's mouth, were beginning to attract the attention of passersby. The last thing they needed now was for some well-meaning patron to call the police, which would force him to come up with some plausible explanation for why he and Ken were here in the parking lot with a crazed, nearly hysterical, blood-soaked kid.

"All, right," Yohji snapped, grabbing the collar of Omi's shirt.

He yanked, pulling the kid off Ken. Omi was still blinded by rage, swinging, cursing, and lashing out wildly. He managed to land a glancing blow to Yohji's head, causing the blonde's sunglasses to go flying several feet, where they landed on the asphalt with the almost-melodic, tinkling sound of breaking glass. Yohji shook the kid hard enough to knock Omi off his feet.

"I said, that's enough!" Yohji snapped, a bit louder.

He shook Omi again, and, this time, it was enough to get the boy's attention. The young blonde hissed irritably and slapped Yohji's hand away. When the older man released him, he stumbled before managing to regain his balance, but he didn't try to go after Ken again, settling, instead, for glaring at the ex-goalie, who was slowly picking himself up off the ground. Yohji spared a glance for Ken, giving the brunette an eyebrows-raised, questioning look. Ken nodded, indicating he was all right, and bent over with a slight grunt to retrieve his ball cap, which had been knocked off during the fray. He brushed at his clothing, trying, unsuccessfully, to get rid of the mud splatters and water stains that now joined the rest of the grime caked on his T-shirt and jeans. He had a black eye, but, other than that, he seemed no worse for wear. A bit shaken, perhaps, but nothing more.

"You … stupid … fuck," Omi hissed, still glaring at Ken. "How dare you … You have no idea … no fucking idea. You don't know what you're saying." The boy was still trembling with rage, but he seemed to be calming down a bit. Omi glanced away, and Yohji caught a glimpse of tears gathering in his eyes, as he repeated, "No idea … no fucking idea. And no right. Aya …" His words trailed off into a soft, hitching sob, and he paused, gathering his composure before continuing, "It's his … the blood. It's Aya's blood, you stupid son-of-a-bitch. He's not here. He … he couldn't get away." The younger blonde turned a tear-streaked face to Yohji and said, his tone apologetic, almost embarrassed, as if he expected some kind of retribution from the older man, "He was hurt … too badly. I didn't want to, but he … he made me leave."

* * *

It was a very tense, very quiet fifteen-minute ride from the coffee shop, where they had picked up Omi, to the warehouse, where they hoped to find Aya. Ken had been subdued into a sort of embarrassed silence, no doubt due to the violent dressing-down Omi had given him, as well as his miscalculation regarding the kid's blood-soaked clothing. It was just like the ex-goalie to get all riled up, and, then, when he realized he'd been wrong, not to know what to say to clear the air. Omi was still pissed at Ken, and chose to sit on the passenger-side of the car, slumped against the window and fuming silently as he watched the cityscape tick by. For his part, Yohji couldn't spare the brain power for any kind of conversation. He was too busy calculating how much blood there was in a human body and trying to match that against the amount of it staining Omi's clothes. That sinking feeling of despair was back again, twisting around in the pit of his stomach and making him nauseous. Each time he glanced over at his younger blonde teammate, taking in the bloodstained clothing, the tear-streaked cheeks, the devastated, traumatized look about the boy, the feeling intensified. Yohji had a hunch it wasn't going to go away until they found Aya, and, if the redhead was already dead when they found him … well, he figured it'd never go away, then.

To Yohji, it was two lifetimes of eternities before they finally reached the warehouse where Omi had been imprisoned. After stowing Seven in the deep shadows behind a handy trash dumpster, the tall blonde found himself standing in front of a rusty door, shifting his weight nervously from one foot to the other, as he inspected a slightly-more-rusty lock. He thumped on the door, fiddled with the lock for a couple of seconds, and wondered what they were going to find inside. All the time he'd spent worrying over Aya, going crazy wondering where the hell he could be, torturing himself with the thought the redhead was dead. Now, here he was, with only one door and a lock separating him from his friend, and Yohji couldn't seem to make himself take that last step and open the door. He was afraid … afraid of what they would find once they went inside, and, stupid as it was, irrational as it was, the tall blonde had to fight back the urge to turn around, get back into Seven, and go home, leaving the door, the lock, and whatever horrors were waiting for him, untouched. Stupid, irrational, childish, ridiculous. And, yet, real --- very real, if he were to judge by the way his stomach flip-flopped and his palms felt slick with sweat.

"You gonna open it or what?" Omi snapped, his voice sounding right at Yohji's elbow, close enough to make the tall blonde jump in surprise and jerk back into reality.

Yohji turned around and regarded the younger blonde with a frown, as his index finger reached out to push his sunglasses higher up his nose. It was a reflex action, and Yohji couldn't help but feel puzzled when his finger met empty air. He frowned at Omi again as he recalled the kid knocking the glasses flying during his spat with Ken. Yohji let his attention wander to the third member of their little rescue party, who stood a bit behind Omi. Ken had chosen to remain silent, a decision for which Yohji was grateful. It saved him from having to decide whether he should pull Omi off the stupid jock again.

A sharp elbow jab brought the older man's attention back to Omi, who gestured toward the lock with a sharp nod of his head and a raised-eyebrow look that indicated he was more than fed up with Yohji's idiotic behavior and more than ready to get this whole damn show on the road. Yohji shook his head as he turned his wandering attention back toward the lock. Omi was still pretty mad --- at Ken, at him, at the world in general, pretty much, at anything and everything that had the misfortune of crossing his path. Yohji had only seen the kid get like this a couple of times during their association, but it had been ugly enough that the memory stuck. He really wasn't looking forward to having to continue to deal with a pissy Omi. He figured he should be mad at the kid --- if not for the sunglasses, then for his general, holier-than-thou, I-hate-everyone-and-especially-you attitude, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Not when he considered the blood soaking the kid's clothes, the gaunt, tight appearance of his face, the ashen pallor to his skin, and the undercurrent of fear he saw in those wide, cornflower blue eyes. Those things told Yohji Omi had passed his breaking point eons ago. He didn't have a clue as to how the kid was holding himself together, and he thought, were he in Omi's shoes, he wouldn't be so strong. Omi would break, eventually … and, when he did … well, Yohji figured it wasn't going to be pretty.

"We don't have all damn day," Omi snapped, jabbing Yohji in the ribs with his elbow again. The younger blonde squinted up into the sky, using his hand to shade his eyes against the sun, which was just beginning to show in the distance, coloring the gray of pre-dawn a warm, blushing pink.

Yohji sighed and shook his head.

'Yep,' he thought, 'this is going to be a fucking great day. Fucking … great.'

Out loud, he replied, "I'm thinking."

Omi hissed in frustration and stamped his foot against the dew-wet pavement. It made a soft splatting sound. "'Bout what?" he snapped. "What's there to think about? Just open the fucking lock … or get outta the way so I can do it."

Yohji turned his head a little to the side and regarded Omi with an eyes-narrowed glare that conveyed the message the young blonde had best watch his step if he didn't want the ass-whooping of his life. Omi ignored it, though, and glared back at his older teammate with a venomous anger that took Yohji by surprise.

"I'm thinking, maybe, this lock is booby-trapped," Yohji said, struggling to maintain a calm veneer to his voice. He ignored Omi's glare by returning his attention to the object of their discussion. "What do you think?" he finished.

Omi shook his head in response, even though Yohji wasn't looking at him. "No," he replied. "I don't … I don't think so. This guy … he was only concerned with keeping us in. He never figured on anyone finding out we were here, on anyone connecting him to us or this place … so he wouldn't have thought about trying to keep people out."

Yohji shrugged. "Good enough for me," he reasoned.

He leaned over and gave the lock a closer inspection, squinting as the sun's first rays of light bounced off it and into his eyes. He turned it over in his hand a couple of times, inspecting every side, and, after a few seconds, reached into his back pocket for his switchblade. He flipped the blade out and flicked it lightly against the keyhole, and that small gesture was enough to open the lock. Yohji snorted in disgust as he slid back the bolt and opened the door.

"You're right," he commented to Omi, "This bastard's full of himself. That was one cheap piece of shit lock. Asshole never expected anyone would stumble onto his playground … at least, not without an invitation."

Omi shivered at Yohji's unconscious choice of words. They reminded him all to well of the way Harrister had described his torture sessions with Aya as "playing with his new toy". Suddenly, the boy couldn't wait any longer. He knew they should move cautiously, fan out and look for any signs of their enemy. It was the prudent thing to do; it was what Bombay would do. But, **_Omi_** wanted to be with Aya, wanted to be at the redhead's side this second, so he told Bombay to shut the hell up and shoved past Yohji to dart into the warehouse's cool darkness, ignoring the tall blonde's yelp of surprise and his admonition to wait.

"You think it's a good idea for him to go off alone like that? That guy could be around here, you know." Ken's voice, although quiet and subdued, caused Yohji to jump, as it sounded unexpectedly out of the nearby darkness.

The tall blonde shrugged as he listened to Omi's hurried footsteps echo and reverberate around them, bouncing off walls, ceiling, and concrete floor until it sounded as if a hundred Omis were running through the building from all directions. He fought to swallow back the feeling of impending doom that was turning his blood to ice as he allowed his eyes to adjust to the grayish half-light filling the warehouse. After a few seconds, he could make out his surroundings almost as well as if they were bathed in full daylight, and he gazed in wonder at what seemed like a maze of huge packing crates. Yohji shuddered, feeling small and a tad claustrophobic because of the huge wooden hulks that loomed over them, almost all the way to the ceiling. He was able to discern a path, of sorts, through the forest of boxes, and he managed to pinpoint the origin of Omi's echoing footsteps in that direction.

Finally, he replied to Ken's question, "Who the hell's gonna stop him? Not us … not when he gets in one of those moods." He turned back, just enough to see Ken nod in agreement, and then motioned the ex-goalie forward with a wave of his hand. "Come on, let's go find him. Place is like a fucking maze or forest or something. Creeps the shit outta me," he muttered as he led the way deeper into the warehouse, in the direction of Omi's echoing footfalls.

In the space of a few moments, which seemed to hang in the air and drift off into forever, Yohji and Ken threaded their way through the silent, packing crate city surrounding them, following the open path twisting its way through the looming hulks and into what felt like the middle of the warehouse. The trail flowed into an open place in the center of the building, a small oasis of space amid the crowding, looming boxes. As they neared it, Yohji saw the glare of a bright, overhead bulb, and felt its heat, even before he reached what looked like the end of their road. As he rounded the last corner and stepped into the first stretch of walkway bathed in light, he also noticed Omi's echoing footsteps had ceased, and he figured the kid must be just ahead of them. The tall blonde's steps slowed, as he squared his shoulders and, remembering the general state of Omi's clothing, tried to steel himself for what he would find at the end of this short journey.

He wasn't prepared; he couldn't have been prepared for what he saw when he emerged from the packing crate jungle into the white-hot, incandescent desert of open space. Yohji stopped in his tracks as he cleared the end of the path, and stared, openmouthed and stomach twisting in a mixture of rage and disgust. Ken, who had been following along behind the taller man without paying much attention, slammed into Yohji after the blonde's sudden stop, pushing him further into the small clearing. Yohji stumbled a few steps, but managed to regain his balance by bracing himself against a nearby crate.

"Holy … shit," Ken muttered, his voice barely more than a whisper, and, even then, managing to echo a bit around the cavernous room.

The words echoed Yohji's thoughts, and, for a moment or two, the tall blonde wondered if he had said them out loud. He turned to look at his brunette teammate, who had come to a dead stop right at the edge of the clear space. Ken was staring around him with the same openmouthed expression --- fear, shock, disgust, and anger mixing and melting together on his handsome features.

There was blood everywhere --- some dried and caked onto various surfaces, some still recent enough to retain the deep red color it has when fresh. A good deal of it soaked the floor under a long hook that seemed to hang from the ceiling. Most of that blood seemed to have been there for some time. It was in various stages of drying and turned the dusty white of the concrete several hues of a rusty maroon color. Blood was splattered across all the crates surrounding the small open area --- great red, rust, and maroon splashes of it. It looked like some modern artist had been at work with buckets of paint. One of the boxes, behind the hook, was shattered, as if something heavy had been thrown into it with a great deal of force. The broken, jagged ends stuck out at different, crazy angles, and many of them were tipped in red. In front of the broken crate was another puddle of the life liquid. It looked like a body had rested there, and recently, too, as this smattering of red was much fresher than the rest. Half the broken crate remained intact, standing tall above the rubble surrounding it, like the chimney of a burned-out house, and Aya's purple-black trench hung on it, spread-eagled like a gaunt scarecrow, nailed in place with two knives, one through each shoulder, and both driven into the wood with such force they were buried up to the hilt. Even from several feet away, Yohji could tell the garment was heavy with blood; small droplets of the sluggish liquid rolled off its hem to join the growing puddle beneath. A pair of empty handcuffs hung from the hilt of one knife, and the second blade impaled a square of paper, nailing it to the crate, as well. From the distance at which Yohji was taking in this horrific little tableau, the paper appeared to be a photograph, although the tall blonde couldn't make out the image on it. But, when he considered the rest of the scene, he felt pretty sure he really didn't want to.

Yohji stood, stock still, barely remembering to breathe, for several minutes as, in a state of shock, he took in the scene before him in all its horrible detail. On some level, his mind registered the fact Omi was nowhere in sight, and his ears picked out the sound of Ken's breathing behind him, harsh, ragged gasps that indicated the ex-goalie was having as much trouble with the scene before them as he was. Yohji couldn't spare any attention for these details, even though his mind, honed through years of experience as an assassin, noted and catalogued them. He was too busy diverting all his attention to the scene in front of him.

The tall blonde took a large breath, struggling to suck courage into his body along with the much-needed air. The coppery-metallic smell of blood closed in on him, strong enough to flavor the very air he breathed, and Yohji fought back the urge to vomit as he stepped further into the open space. Five long-legged strides carried him to the center, where he paused for a moment, looking up at the hook and then down at the drying puddle on the floor, which he stepped around, before two more strides took him the rest of the way across, to stand in front of the trench coat scarecrow. He reached out, and, his hand shaking so violently he could barely control it, twisted and pulled at the knife holding the photograph until he freed it from the wood. The coat crumpled and slid to one side, held in place, now, by only one blade. It made a sloshing sound as it slid away, wet leather rubbing against rough wood, and Yohji, once again, felt his stomach lurch. He swallowed back the reflexive urge that seemed intent on emptying his stomach, and, for the first time in several days, felt glad he'd been too worried over his missing friends to eat much of anything. As it was, he barely had anything in his stomach, other than booze and smoke fumes, and he was having a hard time holding even that much down.

As he pulled the blade free and tossed it aside, the photograph came off and floated down, drifting toward the ground until Yohji caught it in midair. When the tall blonde got his first good look at it, any urge to vomit fled in the face of the overpowering anger and rage that took over his mind and body. His heart thudded against his ribs and his breath came in hitching, ragged gasps as he glared at the photograph clutched so tightly in his hand that his fingers showed white and his joints ached. He knew he was trembling from rage, but he couldn't stop. For the briefest moment or two, the space of one, maybe two, thudding heartbeats, the world went to shades of gray and white around him as his mind blanked of any thought other than venomous, spitting, poisonous rage the likes of which he'd never experienced.

It was Aya, hanging from the hook, his head bowed onto his chest, his body a mass of bruises and oozing, bleeding cuts and gashes. One side of his head was a fractured, bloody mess. Blood dripped from his heavy, leather boots onto the floor beneath him, pooling into the drying puddle they had found under the hook. His arms were streaked with red. Yohji glanced at the handcuffs, which still hung from the hilt of the remaining knife, and saw liberal smears of red, confirming they had, indeed, inflicted deep gashes on the swordsman's wrists. He flipped the photograph over, and, on the other side, saw the word: _"Broken"_, written in a sloppy, scrawling hand that took up most of the blank space there.

The world around Yohji went white and gray again, as a new wave of white-hot, pulsing rage surged through him. But, this time, it was rage tinged with sorrow and a profound sense of loss, and it was all the tall blonde could do to keep from falling to his knees right there, in the puddle of Aya's blood, and sobbing his heart out. There was no way Aya could be alive --- not after all that. Yohji knew, probably better than anyone, what a strong, stubborn, asshole Aya was, but no one could survive what he had gone through. No one was that strong, that stubborn, or that much of an asshole. Never had Yohji hated anyone more profoundly, with more white-hot venom than he hated the man who had done this to his friend. Never had the tall blonde wanted to kill anyone as badly as he wanted to kill the arrogant bastard who had left this horror for them.

"Son … of … a …," Ken's soft, shocked voice trailed off from just behind Yohji, where he had leaned around the tall blonde to get a glimpse of what had so captivated the older man's attention.

Yohji had to fight the irrational urge to hide the photograph from Ken. He didn't know why. Maybe it was because Ken had expressed such venomous hatred for their still-missing teammate. Maybe it was because the ex-goalie had been so quick to blame Aya for everything. Maybe it was because Ken had seemed so unconcerned with Aya's disappearance, focusing all his attention, instead, only on getting Omi back unharmed. Whatever the reason, and no matter how irrational and stupid his mind told him it was, the urge was there, and so strong Yohji barely managed to fight it back.

"We're too late. He's not here," Omi's voice cut into the heavy, tense silence that had fallen over the two older Weiss.

Yohji and Ken both jumped, startled by the sudden intrusion of the young blonde's words, and turned their attention from the photograph to regard the youngest assassin with guilty expressions. Ken stepped away from Yohji, and the tall blonde tried to hide the photograph behind his back, in that studiedly casual way people act when they're trying to hide something horrible from someone else.

Omi stared at them for a couple of moments, his eyes narrowed in a suspicious glare. Finally, he moved into the space, coming to a stop just in front of Yohji, and said, "What is that?"

"Wh … what?" Yohji asked, trying hard to sound nonchalant and failing, miserably.

Omi sighed, a small explosion of sound between a snort and a huff, indicating his general displeasure with, pretty much, anything and everyone at this particular moment, and said, "That … what you're hiding … behind your back. And, don't give me any of that … 'it's nothing' shit. We don't have time for that crap."

Yohji sighed and stared up at the ceiling, as if he could find the answer to Omi's question written there, but he replied, in a quiet, almost nonexistent voice, "It's … a picture. A picture of Aya."

Omi held out his hand. When Yohji failed to move, the younger blonde's glare intensified, and the older man could see fear, horror, uncertainty, and anger chasing each other through his wide, almost-innocent, blue eyes.

"Give it," Omi stated, struggling to keep his tone flat and matter-of-fact, but unable to hide the small hitch at the end of his words. When Yohji still hesitated, Omi continued, his voice sounding small and almost lost, "It doesn't matter, Yohji. I already know. I was there. I saw it happen."

Yohji hadn't thought about that. It made sense, though, considering the amount of blood on the boy's clothes, and the tall blonde wondered why he hadn't thought of it before. Somehow, Omi's simple statement of fact, spoken so quietly the words were almost swallowed up by the hulking packing crates looming over them, drove reality home to the tall blonde, like a railroad spike through his brain. He shuddered and began to shake as he fought back the grief, despair, and loss that had been eating at him all this time and that, now, threatened to consume him, body and soul. He felt tears gathering in his eyes, and he cursed the loss of his sunglasses. The dark lenses would have hidden his weakness from his teammates, and, in particular, from Omi, who was remaining so strong, even after all he'd been through. Without them, Yohji felt naked, exposed, but he didn't make any movement to wipe away the tears that, now, spilled over and traced small paths over his face. Instead, without a word, he held the photograph out to his younger teammate.

Yohji's hand shook, and the paper crackled a bit as it slapped against itself. Omi stilled the tall blonde's hand by covering it with his own as he gently pried the photograph from Yohji's grasp and stared at it for several minutes. He knew Yohji and Ken were both watching him. They both seemed poised, tensed, ready to spring into action at the slightest provocation. Probably, they expected him to fall apart when he saw the photographic evidence Harrister had left behind. Well, they were wrong. He'd seen the real thing, and that was much worse than any picture ever could be; if that hadn't broken him, nothing would. After several silent moments, Omi crumpled the photograph in his fist and, without a word, stalked toward the path leading back to the door.

"O … Omi?" Yohji's soft, almost pleading voice, tinged with so many emotions --- fear, worry, despair, and, even, anger --- stopped the boy just as he was about to reenter the packing crate jungle.

Omi paused, but he didn't turn around to look at his teammates. He couldn't. If he did, they would see the tears spilling from his eyes, and he couldn't bear the thought of seeming so weak in the face of Aya's stoic bravery. He owed Aya more than that --- more than the fear-filled tears of an idiotic boy. He had to remain strong and resolute. It was the only way he could honor his injured teammate's sacrifice, and the only way he could keep his promise to Aya.

"I'm going home," Omi replied, his voice soft but with an edge of steel to it. "I'm going home," he repeated, clenching his fist around the photograph for emphasis. His knuckles showed white, bone pushing against skin. "I'm going to find Aya. I'm going to find the bastard who did this … and I'm going to kill him."

Without another word, the boy left, melting into the shadowy depths of the packing crate jungle surrounding them. Ken and Yohji looked at each other for a moment or two, both of them thinking Aya, surely, was dead, but neither willing to voice that thought out loud. Finally, Yohji shrugged. He turned and, with one smooth, savage yank, pulled the second knife from the broken crate, freeing Aya's trench. He gathered the tattered, blood-soaked material into a bundle and turned to follow Omi.

"Sounds like a plan to me," he commented as he, too, entered the shadowy pathway leading toward the door, Ken following on his heels.


	8. Chapter 8

Heat --- blinding, mind-numbing heat --- beating down on him, scorching his broken, throbbing body and making breathing next to impossible. Rivulets of sweat trickling across his skin, burning and stinging like thousands of needles and pinpoints as they seeped into gaping, bleeding wounds and flowed over broken, raw skin. The throb and ache of arms stretched beyond their limits, nearly pulled from their sockets. Slowly, ever so slowly, these sensations managed to work their way through Aya's exhausted subconscious, pulling him from the deep, engulfing black in which he'd been drifting into the harsh, white-hot, glaring realm of reality.

He didn't want to leave the black. It was soft and inviting. It folded around him like his mother's arms, cradling him, allowing him to forget, and he struggled to remain there. After all, reality had, pretty much, been one nasty bitch so far. But, it was no use. The sensations banging away at his aching body were too much. They refused to let him retreat into the black, into the peace that came from knowing and feeling nothing.

It took a long time and a heroic struggle for control of his body before he managed to raise his head. One glance at his surroundings told him it hadn't been worth the effort. He could only see a few feet in front of him. A bright white, incandescent bulb, hanging directly overhead, illuminated a small space around him. The light was intense and harsh. It threw everything into hard, garish relief, hurt his eye, and, although he wouldn't have thought such a thing possible, made his head throb even more. A chair, liberally splattered with red --- his blood, Aya realized, after staring at it for a moment --- and a puddle of more blood beneath him were his only company within the circle of white-hot light. Outside the glare, there was only darkness.

'Same song … second … verse,' the redhead mused. His thoughts came slowly as he struggled to force his sluggish, pain-numbed mind into action.

Even as the thought came to him, though, he knew it wasn't true. He didn't have any memory of coming to this place, but he knew he wasn't in the warehouse. It had been dark there, too, but not like this. This darkness was close, cramped, small, and oppressive. That darkness had been huge, cavernous, like a great, echoing, metal cave. All in all, though, what did it really matter? Another dark place … another scalding hot light bulb beating down on broken bones and raw, bleeding skin … another hook from the ceiling. For being such a psychotic asshole, Harrister wasn't long on imagination.

Aya was sure Omi had gotten away clean. He had vague recollections --- nothing more than ragged bits and pieces of memory, really --- of the Englishman returning to find the boy gone … asking questions about where Omi was, questions Aya couldn't or wouldn't answer … Harrister's blind rage … the feeling of sharp metal cutting through flesh and muscle … the bone-crunching beating the Englishman had given. All of it tumbled around in Aya's mind, jumbling together into one incoherent mess, but it was enough to tell him Omi was safe and out of Harrister's clutches. The screaming ache and throb that had replaced his body spoke eloquently of the Englishman's impotent, childish fury at being bested in his own game of cat and mouse, and it told him, without a doubt, the boy was safe.

Aya wondered, in a detached, odd sort of way --- as if his mind had taken leave of his body to have a look back at the tattered human being that had, until recently, been its home --- how his death would affect Omi. He had promised the boy he'd stay alive until they came for him. He remembered that clearly, remembered the pain and fear in those wide, almost-innocent, cornflower blue eyes. He'd take that image and the guilt, from not being able to keep his promise, with him to the grave … and, soon, from the way things felt. Aya had no doubt he was going to die here. Everything that should have been easy was too damn hard --- breathing, thinking, seeing, being --- and slipping into the blackness hovering about him, something that should have been hard, was just too damn easy. Before, it had seemed ominous, that blackness --- like a hungry predator waiting to devour him --- something he should fight against with every fiber of his being. But, now … now it seemed so … right. It seemed like he belonged there, as if it was calling to him, promising him rest, relief, and ultimate freedom. He didn't think Omi would stop looking for him. The boy was stubborn that way. And, he thought Yohji, probably, wouldn't give up on him, either. He regretted not being able to keep his promise to the younger blonde. Still, it was worth it, if he could go to Hell with the knowledge Omi was safe, knowing he'd protected the boy. Aya couldn't regret dying … not if his life was the price for Omi's.

He had never allowed himself to show it, and, if pressed, would never have admitted it, but the youngest Weiss was special to him. Although a skilled assassin, the boy, somehow, managed to retain a certain air of childlike innocence, managed to look on the bright side of things, and seemed strong enough that he didn't fear or regret his own existence. Omi was close in age to Aya, his own precious little sister, and the redhead supposed he had, in some way, come to think of the boy as a substitute for her --- a little brother to replace the sister he could no longer reach.

No, he was pretty sure they wouldn't stop searching for him. But, he was just as convinced they wouldn't find him in time. Omi had all the puzzle pieces within reach now, but it would take time for the boy to put them together. Time wasn't something Aya had right now. The black continued to call him, telling him the sands in his particular hour glass were running out, that his life had come down to being measured in hours, instead of years or days. In the end, Aya figured, they would all be better off without him around, and, eventually, after the guilt of what had happened wore off, the others would see it that way, too. He'd never done anything to endear himself to any of them. With him gone, perhaps Kritiker would bring in someone they could really care for, really respect, and really accept as a member of the team.

His biggest regret now was for his sister. What would happen to her once he was gone? The others knew about her, but would they take care of her? Would they look in on her, visit her, make sure she wasn't alone in the world? Kritiker would continue to pay for her care --- that much he was sure of. It had been the price for his soul. But, who would love her? Who would be devoted to her, would care for her, the way he had? The answer, when it came to him, coursed through his body with a fresh, new, kind of pain: no one. Even though he lived and killed with the others, he was alone. He knew that, deep down. He needed them, although he refused to admit it. But, the reverse wasn't true. He knew that, too. With him gone, she would be alone. Still, as the darkness moved in to claim him, offering rest and peace, he couldn't help but think, selfishly, how glad he was he'd never have to face his sister's disappointed, accusing eyes when she learned he was a murderer.

* * *

Roland Harrister traversed the Crazy Geisha's dirty, littered dance floor, gingerly stepping around the layers of debris that buried it at the end of each evening --- paper, bottles, crushed cigarettes, cigarette packages, used needles, empty plastic baggies, stray items of clothing, the occasional weapon. He couldn't help thinking, though, this particular trash wasn't normal. It was from that night --- the night Jackie had died. He hadn't been able to open the club since. Really, there wasn't any point in it. He had only begun operating the night spot for his little brother's benefit, in the first place --- so Jackie would have a safe place where he could pick up partners for his little trysts. Without Jackie, there wasn't any point to anything. Harrister's life had ended that night, at the same instant that red-haired monster had sent Jackie to the other realm.

As thoughts of his captive crowded into his mind, Harrister kicked at a stray bottle with enough force to send it flying through the air and across the room, where it struck the far wall and shattered with a bell-like, tinkling sound. How he hated that man … that murdering asshole who had taken Jackie from him. He'd seen it happen - had seen it, and, yet, had been powerless to prevent it. In the end, he'd been unable to protect Jackie when it had mattered most, and he hated the red-haired bastard for that, most of all. He still saw it --- that murderous demon sweeping out of the darkness, like some vengeful angel of death, cutting Jackie down. The blade, slicing so easily through flesh and bone, had cut the boy nearly in half with a spray of blood as bright as dozens of newly-fallen roses. It haunted him, that image --- haunted every waking and sleeping moment he'd had since that night. In that instant, the very instant Jackie had crossed from this world into the next, Harrister had sworn, without even consciously realizing it, the red-haired swordsman would pay.

Everything had been to protect Jackie --- opening the club, even the other killings. The boy hadn't had anything to do with them, hadn't even known about them. He had done it to protect his little brother, so no one would ever find out about Jackie's sexual preferences. The swordsman would be the last --- his last tribute to his lost brother, and the fulfillment of the promise he'd made Jackie's soul as it had departed this world that night.

But, in all honesty, he couldn't say he was doing the red-haired demon to protect Jackie. After all, his little brother was dead --- dead at this man's hands. No, Jackie didn't need his protection any longer. This man … this last victim … was for revenge and for pleasure --- his pleasure. And, he would be lying if he told himself he hadn't gotten pleasure out of it. The swordsman had given him a lot of joy --- every cut against that perfect, porcelain-like skin; every crunch of breaking bone; every rivulet of red unleashed from that finely-muscled, almost perfect body; every taunt; every threat carried out on the man; every groan and scream of pain wrenched from him --- had sent a twinge of pleasure singing through Harrister's veins. Finally, he had seen resignation and, maybe, a hint of despair, settle in that hard, cold, blue-violet eye. That had given him the most enjoyment yet, had caused his blood to surge and his body to throb in a way he knew he'd never experience again. That was how he'd known this little game was over. Nothing else he could do to the man could possibly give him the pleasure, the pure, sensual excitement, he'd felt at seeing the murdering demon finally broken, at seeing this man, once so proud and mighty, finally accepting the inevitability of his own death.

But, in the end, no matter what he told himself, no matter how much pleasure he'd had at the redhead's expense, Harrister knew he hadn't truly broken the man. He'd gotten resignation and despair, but he'd wanted fear, the kind of true terror that mimicked what Jackie must have felt in those final moments, when he'd seen that murderer bearing down on him out of the shadows. He had wanted the swordsman to beg for his life, or, better yet, for death, but that man had cheated him of these things, had denied him this final pleasure, and had made it impossible for him to truly fulfill the promise he'd made to Jackie. The redhead had accepted his fate, had accepted the fact of his own death. Harrister had seen that much in the man's eye, but the way he accepted it --- so calmly and without any fuss or struggle. It made the Englishman think this man had accepted his fate long ago, before their paths had ever crossed on that fateful night. He had the feeling this man had died, on the inside, a long time ago, and, in the end, there's nothing you can really do to make someone like that suffer the way they should.

'All the more reason to end it now,' Harrister thought. He descended the stairs at the back of the club, which led to the basement. His heavy boots shuffled through the paper and debris scattered there, making the same hurried, scuffling noises the rats made as they scurried from one place to another.

When he reached the bottom, he paused for a moment, allowing his eyes time to adjust to the basement's deeper, murkier darkness. Once he had his bearings, he wound his way through the cases of alcohol stacked in the hallway. He shoved one stack of boxes aside. They fell to the floor with the melodic clinking of breaking glass, revealing a doorway. Harrister paused for a moment or two, just long enough to fish a small key from his front jeans pocket, and then unlocked the door, immediately nudging it open with his foot.

The heavy, metal door swung inward, moving soundlessly on well-oiled hinges, to reveal a small, cramped, mostly dark room, illuminated by a single incandescent bulb in the middle of the ceiling. A hook hung from the roof, just to the right of the light bulb, and, on it, a battered, bloodied, bruised man. His head was slumped forward, chin touching his chest, and he gave no indication he was aware of this intrusion into his cramped, dark prison. Even from his position in the doorway, Harrister could tell the swordsman was unconscious. He felt a little stab of disappointment. He'd hoped to have one last play session with his prize before ending things.

'Ah … just as well,' the Englishman thought, as he turned from the room with a sigh. He pulled the door closed behind him, but didn't bother locking it. 'It wouldn't have been any fun, anyhow.'

Now, it really was time to bring everything to a close. There were just a few things to do, first.

* * *

The cold rolled from the walk-in freezer in waves, riding the frost-induced fog out of the subzero appliance and into the relative warmth of the surrounding room. Harrister shivered as it floated over his body, gently and persistently breaching the inadequate barriers provided by his jeans and the long-sleeved, pink shirt. Sometimes, in the dead of summer, when the heat was at its worst and it seemed hot enough outside to fry eggs on the sidewalk, he would come down here and stand like this, in the freezer's open door, basking in the waves of cool comfort that rolled out of it with the fog and pretending he was in some icy wasteland. There wasn't any time for those games now, though. He watched as the temperature around the freezer equalized enough so the chilly mist parted, revealing the appliance's contents: mountains of ice - stacked in huge, hulking blocks and in bags; cases of frozen beverages; boxes filled to overflowing with the meat, vegetables, and dessert items available for the club's lunch and early-dinner crowd; and, in the far back corner, sitting on a makeshift throne of ice blocks like some revered, entombed pharaoh surrounded by food offerings, Jackie.

How did it all come to this? How did they get from where they had started to here? How did a man go from living a relatively decent life to standing in an industrial, walk-in freezer, staring at his brother's dead body? Harrister shook his head, trying to cut his mind off before it started wandering down those paths. If he followed the rabbit trails of "why" and "how", he might come to the end and find he had only himself to blame. Perhaps later, once things were done, once everything was finished, he would go to that place. But, right now, he didn't have time, and he didn't have the attention to spare for thoughts like that. He was about to lay his brother to rest, and that was all he wanted occupying his mind at this moment.

Ten strides from his long legs carried Harrister to the back of the freezer, and he paused for a moment, gazing lovingly upon the boy he'd raised, a boy who had barely had the chance to become a man before that red-haired, murdering bastard cut him down. The scene kept playing itself out in his mind, over and over again, like an old movie caught in a never-ending, nightmarish loop, and the Englishman felt hot tears gather in his eyes and spill down his cheeks, where they left cold tracks of moisture. He didn't really know why he had kept the body. Maybe because he couldn't stand the thought of never seeing Jackie again. Maybe because he hadn't been there for Jackie in those final moments, when the boy had really needed him. Maybe because, on some level, he knew and understood Jackie's destruction was his fault, the price for his sins. For whatever reason, he just hadn't been able to let go that night. But, now … now it was time.

He reached out with a shaking hand and stroked Jackie's hair. It was cold, stiff, and brittle under his fingers, as if even the gentlest touch would shatter it. His hand moved down, almost of its own accord, to stroke the boy's frozen cheek. How he longed to feel warm skin under his palm, not this frostbitten, freezer-burned remnant of the beautiful, innocent boy who had been his brother. He ached to see that light in Jackie's eyes once again --- that sparkling, mischievous, teasing expression that had seemed bright enough to light up the entire world. It had drawn everyone to the boy, had shown the whole world how special Jackie was. His soul cried out for the chance to hear the boy's voice --- clear, innocent, teasing --- just once more. The sound of Jackie's voice had brightened his life, and he felt he would give anything … anything in the world … just to hear it again. He strained his ears, as if, by some miracle, he could hear it … could hear Jackie's voice one last time. But, there was only the low, electrical hum of the freezer's motor, the plip-plop of water dripping from the condenser, and the crackling noise of ice slowly melting as the warmth from the hallway pushed its way into this small, frozen world.

Suddenly, reality hit him, screaming full-force into his brain like some deranged harpy on speed, and, in a cruel twist of irony, bringing the first lucid moment … the first inkling of sanity … Harrister had had since that first kill. It was so long ago … he could barely remember it. He stared down at his brother's frozen corpse, at his hand resting against Jackie's cheek, warm, living flesh pressed against cold death, and, in that instant, in seeing that slim thread binding life and death together in this one moment, Harrister knew. He knew he had the answer to all his questions, to all his "whys" and "hows". He was the one. He had brought them here, had brought them to this. He had meant only good, had intended only to protect his brother, but, somehow, it had all gone wrong.

Harrister had fought back the grief from that night. He had clung to his anger, his hatred, his horror, telling himself those emotions would give him the strength he needed to fuel his burning desire for revenge. He had told himself to remain strong, for Jackie, to make that murderer pay for what he had done to the boy. But, grief is a funny emotion. It won't be denied. Just when you think you've conquered it, just when you think you've pushed it away, it comes creeping back to set up camp in your soul when you least expect it. And, now, it came back to Roland Harrister. He didn't want it. He didn't have time for it, not right now, but it came, all the same. He felt it swoop in and cover his soul with its wings, a mother bird protecting her chick, and he fought it.

Harrister managed, just barely, to choke back a sob as he reached for his brother, to gather the boy in his arms for one last, loving embrace. Jackie's body was stiff, frozen solid, and wouldn't bend into the Englishman's gentle, protective hug. It was like holding a board, but, still, Harrister refused to let go, refused to release his hold even when the chill from Jackie's body had settled into his, making him shiver. In this, the cruelest twist yet, Fate seemed determined to deny him this last, final comfort, to refuse him even the smallest salve for his broken heart and tortured, crumbling soul.

As the full weight of his grief settled on him, the Englishman sank to his knees, too broken and exhausted to remain standing, no longer able to bear up under the double weight of the grief rushing in to claim him and the reality that this was all by his own hand. The first sob managed to break free from Harrister's shuddering, shaking body, and, then, it was as if a dam had burst. Huge, gasping, choking sobs wrenched from him, echoing around and around the small space, filling the freezer with the sounds of mind-shattering grief, unbearable loss, and heartbreaking sorrow.

"Oh … God … Jackie … Jackie. Why … why did it have to be … you? It … was me … all along … it should have been … me," Harrister mumbled.

The words tumbled out, broken, almost incoherent, all but lost in the sound of the Englishman's choking sobs. They rode from his soul on the wave of his grief, to hang in the frozen air and then crash to the floor, where they seemed to break, brittle and hard as old glass. Harrister clutched Jackie's body to him, rocking back and forth, back and forth, unable to stem the anguish pouring from him. His sobs continued to ratchet around the small, frozen room. The tears flowed so freely, he believed they would never stop. They ran warm from his eyes and traced chilled paths down his cheeks, tiny rivers into which he poured all his anguish, grief, sorrow, loss, and heartbreak. They fell onto Jackie's frozen features, sparkling for a moment, and, then, freezing. The frost on the floor where he knelt melted under him, leaving frigid patches of wet on Harrister's jeans, and the chill radiating from Jackie's corpse slowly took over the Englishman's body, until he could hardly force the retching, choking sobs out for the violent shivers that ran shuddering through him. But, still, he remained --- cradling the dead, frozen boy, rocking back and forth, shoulders heaving as he cried, and listening to the sound of his anguish fill the room around him.

* * *

A few hours later, the Englishman found himself, once again, in the open doorway of his hidden basement room, staring at the battered, bloody man hanging there. He was spent, exhausted, now that he had, finally, given in to the grief he'd held back for so long. As he stared at the man in front of him, Harrister couldn't help but think about that boy, the other he'd held captive for a while. That boy had reminded him, in so many ways, of Jackie, which was probably what had saved the young blonde, in the end. But, the Englishman couldn't help but remember something else --- the way this man, who he had vilified and come to think of as less than human … nothing more than a red-haired, murdering, angel of death --- had protected that boy. He had given his life for that boy's safety, just like Harrister would have been willing to lay down his life for Jackie's protection. When he thought of that, the Englishman found he didn't see his captive as a monster any more. He only saw a man --- a man selflessly devoted to those he cared for, a man willing to do anything, sacrifice anything for the safety of those in his world, a man who had struggled but, in the end, lost everything. That was it --- no monster, no demon, no murderer … just a dying man. Harrister found, even for all that had happened, he just couldn't hate this man. Not any more.

The Englishman sighed and entered the room, dragging the chair over to where his captive hung. Its legs made a loud screeching noise as they slid across the concrete floor. It reverberated and echoed around the little space and made shivers run up Harrister's spine, like fingernails across a chalkboard. He couldn't help but feel a twinge of regret, now that it was almost over. This man … Harrister had never met another like him … and he couldn't help wondering what might have happened, if they had met under different circumstances.

'Probably nothing,' he thought, shrugging off the unease that had settled on him so suddenly, 'Some things … just not meant to be.'

The Englishman pulled the chair close and carefully, struggling to balance his muscular bulk on its narrow seat, climbed up and leaned in, so his lips just brushed his captive's ear.

"We're so much alike, you and I," he whispered, his breath barely stirring the long tail of hair and dangling golden earring.

Harrister fingered the earring for a moment, and, then, on an impulse, gently removed it from the redhead's ear. He slipped it into the front pocket of his jeans, even as he wondered why he wanted something of this man. He hadn't kept any kind of souvenirs before, hadn't wanted to remember any of his other victims. But, this man … he was different. Pushing the thoughts aside, Harrister cut the ropes attaching his captive to the overhead hook and lowered the swordsman's battered body to the floor.

He gathered the redhead's broken body into his arms and carried him up the stairs and the short distance across the Geisha's littered dance floor to the back exit and the loading dock, where he had left a rented van waiting. The coffin he'd purchased for Jackie was inside the van, and he'd already entombed the boy's frozen body within it. Harrister lugged his captive into the back of the vehicle, heedless of the blood that stained his clothes, opened the coffin lid, and, ever so gently, laid his final victim, his final tribute to Jackie, inside. The Englishman stared for a few moments, struggling to imprint every detail of this scene on his mind, and, then, ever so slowly, lowered the lid. It creaked out in protest, and Harrister winced at the sound … the final slamming of the gates of doom.

* * *

The sun was just beginning to rise, spreading soft rays of light and sending pink tendrils of color across the early morning gray of the sky, when Harrister pulled into the garage of his townhouse. He sat in the silent van for a few minutes, thinking about the recent events in his life. He had thought he was being so clever with those killings. Nothing would lead back to him, the club, or Jackie; he had made certain of that. But, somehow, he had messed up. The unthinkable had happened.

He had adored his little brother, had worshipped the boy, and had struggled to give Jackie everything his heart desired. Somewhere along the way, he had convinced himself he had to kill the men Jackie brought home, that it was necessary to protect the boy from the world's judgment and prying eyes. But, in the end, he had been the only one judging his brother's decisions and choices. Now, he was coming to realize, for the first time, he had been unable to accept Jackie's sexual preferences. But, realizing he had felt that way didn't make it make sense. After all, he was gay, too. He had even been attracted to that redhead, had watched the man for several nights at the club. On that last night, he had approached him, thinking the aloof, icy man would look very attractive warming his bed.

So, how could he be so hypocritical? How could what was fine for him not be all right for Jackie's life? He had suffered so much pain in his life because of being gay. He hadn't wanted that for Jackie, for the boy he had raised after their parents' death, who was more son to him than brother. He had struggled to shield Jackie from that life, going to great lengths to hide his own sexual preference from the boy, in the mistaken belief doing so would allow Jackie to be "normal", in the foolish conviction the boy wouldn't be like him. Somehow, Harrister realized now, he had twisted everything around in his mind until he believed the men Jackie brought home were at fault. In the end, it was his own misplaced, twisted, hypocritical intolerance that had led to the boy's death.

"How did I become such a fool?" he wondered aloud as he exited the van and climbed the stairs leading from the garage into the kitchen.

He walked through the kitchen without stopping, although he tossed the van keys onto the counter as he exited through the door leading into the living room. He crossed the living room without slowing down, and took the stairs leading to the second floor. He traversed the hall, quickly coming to the last door on the right, which led into his study. Harrister shoved the door open, causing it to swing back and strike the wall behind it with a loud "bam", but he ignored the noise. He quickly crossed the room and slid into the huge, overstuffed, leather chair that stood behind his monstrous, mahogany desk. Then, he stopped, staring in disbelief at his reflection in the highly polished wooden surface. Who was this man staring back at him? Harrister had always taken great pride in his appearance, and this man, the one he saw in his reflection … well, it wasn't him. It couldn't be. His normally well-groomed hair was disheveled and out of place. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his skin was ghostly pale. His clothes, usually spotlessly clean and well-pressed, were dirty, bloodstained, and wrinkled. He ran a hand through his already-mussed hair and sighed, a noise that sounded loud in the eerie quiet of this room and his house. He had a hard time believing he could have fallen so low, but, all in all, he figured it didn't matter all that much now.

Harrister sighed again and shifted his weight, leaning back a bit in the chair so he could fumble through his front jeans pocket and pull out the long, dangling, gold earring he had taken from the redhead. Early morning sunlight poured in through the windows at his back, and he held the piece of jewelry up, twisting his hand slightly so the dangling bar could swing and catch the light. It sparkled. It was such a feminine piece --- an odd thing for a man to wear --- and Harrister couldn't help but wonder why that man had had it, why the redhead had worn it as if it was a badge of honor. As he stared at the earring, holding it dangling between his index finger and thumb, Harrister couldn't help but think the redhead was everything he had hoped to be but never could. That man hadn't betrayed those he loved --- had fought for them, fought to protect them, until the bitter end --- at least, if his actions toward that blonde boy had been any indication. Harrister couldn't help but wish he'd had the strength to do the same for Jackie, that he'd had the courage to stand by his little brother, instead of taking the path he had, a path which had, ultimately, destroyed the very thing he wanted to protect.

"Why couldn't I have been like that?" the Englishman muttered. He clenched his fist around the small piece of jewelry with enough force that the post pricked his hand and drew blood, as he turned his attention to digging through the desk drawers.

It only took him a few minutes to find what he wanted. The gun was in one of the lower drawers, buried under some business papers. He pulled it out and tested its weight in the palm of his hand. It was heavy, solid. He slid the magazine out to make sure it was loaded, and, then, held the gun up a bit, staring at it. The early morning sunlight glinted off it, and, by some optical illusion, seemed to turn the shiny, silver barrel a rosy shade of pink.

"I'm sorry. I'm so damn sorry, Jackie," he muttered as he stuffed the gun's barrel into his mouth and pulled the trigger.

The explosion, which sounded just like a car backfiring, broke the early morning silence and startled a flock of birds into flight from a nearby tree.


	9. Chapter 9

Ken stood on the bottom step, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, and listening to the sounds that floated out of the darkened briefing room --- muttered curses and the soft tick-tack of someone typing. He couldn't help but think back to the last time he'd stood here, feeling awkward and uncomfortable about facing one of his teammates. But, then, it had been Yohji. This time, Omi was the one ensconced in the cave-like room. They hadn't spoken, other than basic, everyday pleasantries, since the night he and Yohji had picked the boy up at that coffee shop. It was like living with a stranger, instead of the teammate who had, over the years, become his closest friend, and Ken was sick of it. He was sick of the whole, damn thing --- of the bland words spoken in passing, nothing more than the common courtesy you'd extend a stranger; of the tension hanging in the air between them; of pretending nothing was wrong when this was eating him alive. So, once again, the ex-goalie found himself standing on this bottom stair, causing it to creak and squeak underneath his shifting weight, and wondering how the hell he could get past what had happened and make peace with someone who meant the world to him. Ken sighed. He wondered why he had the uncanny knack for pissing off everyone around him, and, much as he hated to, he couldn't help but wonder if, maybe, his failure to get along with Aya had more to do with his personality and stubbornness than the redhead's.

Ken shook his head, ridding himself of that thought. Maybe, he could explore it later, but, right now, all he cared about was finding some way to make peace with Omi.

"You might as well come in. I know you're there," the young blonde called. His voice was soft. It didn't sound angry, but it had an edge of tension and exhaustion to it.

For several seconds, Ken debated over whether he should just turn around and retreat up the stairs. That would be the easy thing to do, and, on some level, was the path he most desired. When it came to personal relationships, Ken had always been a fan of the path of least resistance, which is what had gotten him into this mess, in the first place. Hating Aya had been easier than getting to know the man, and, ultimately, that hatred had caused him to alienate, first, Yohji, and, now, Omi. Ken sighed as he came to the inescapable conclusion the path of least resistance wasn't going to work in this case. He'd made this mess. Now, it was time to face up to it, to face it head-on, like he did so many of his other problems. Besides, he was sick and tired of pretending there was nothing wrong between him and Omi. If it meant a screaming confrontation to clear the air, then so be it.

"Ken," Omi's disembodied voice prompted, "I know it's you. Just come the fuck in and get it over with."

Ken frowned. As always, Omi knew him better than anyone. He had a feeling the boy had known, all along, he was out here, and that Omi had let him stew for this long in order to torture him. He felt like he should be angry with the younger blonde, but Ken just didn't have it in himself to feel that way. After what had happened between them, he figured it was the least he was due at Omi's hands. The younger blonde was extending an offer of peace, and he was grateful for it. It was more than he deserved.

Ken took a deep breath and walked into the briefing room. It was dark, except for the bluish, electronic glow from the computer, which bathed Omi and his surroundings in an eerie half-light, throwing a shimmering glow over almost everything it touched. The youngest Weiss had been entrenched in this room since he had returned home, spending the past few days in the cave-like dark, with only the glow from his computer for company. Ken thought Yohji had forced the boy to take a few breaks to sleep and eat, but he was ashamed to admit he wasn't sure. He had, pretty much, avoided both his blonde teammates since that night in the coffee shop parking lot.

He paused in the doorway, staring at Omi's back. The young blonde didn't bother turning around, but, despite that, Ken couldn't help but notice how exhausted and beaten his friend looked. Now that he was taking his first, good, long look at Omi, Ken realized the strain, stress, and tension from the past several days, not to mention the time the boy had spent in captivity, were starting to take their toll. Omi's slumped shoulders and the bitter, brittle edge Ken heard to the young blonde's voice spoke volumes. As he approached from behind, Ken could see his friend's face reflected in the monitor, and he was surprised at how pale, thin, and drawn Omi looked. His skin had an ashy gray pallor to it, and deep, bruise-like circles ringed his eyes, which were dull and listless, a sharp contrast to their normal, vibrant expression. Omi had, upon arriving home, immediately showered and changed clothes. But, the ex-goalie was pretty sure the green t-shirt and grubby jeans Omi wore now were the same ones the kid had donned upon discarding his blood-soaked clothing. Omi's hair was mussed and matted, testament to the many hours he'd spent in front of this computer, as well as his frustration at running into one dead end after another in his search for Aya.

Ken coughed and glanced down at the floor, running his hand through his hair in an uncomfortable, almost embarrassed, gesture, when he realized Omi was glaring back at him through the computer monitor reflection. He hadn't realized he'd been staring.

Omi sighed, a tired, defeated sound that was uncharacteristic for the young blonde. Somehow, it made the boy seem so much older than he actually was, whereas, usually, Omi managed to retain enough cheerfulness and exuberance to seem much younger. Ken was startled at the stark contrast.

"I'm not mad at you," Omi said. Somehow, despite staring at each other reflection-to-reflection, he managed to look right through Ken's eyes and into his soul.

Ken sighed, a small puff of relief, and pulled a chair up next to Omi's. He slumped into it and leaned forward to stare at the floor, elbows resting on his knees.

"Maybe … maybe you should be," the ex-goalie replied.

His voice, although lacking the tired, bitter edge Omi's had, was so quiet it was almost lost in the soft click-clacking of the computer keys. Despite their little staring match, the boy's fingers had never ceased moving over the keyboard, finding their positions automatically from years of practice as Weiss's computer expert and chief intelligence operative. But, at Ken's words, Omi's fingers slowed, and, for a moment, paused --- just two heartbeats of uncertain silence before, once again, resuming their cadence --- telling Ken the boy was as uncomfortable and unhappy with the situation, as reluctant to broach the entire subject, and as uncertain of how to get past it as he was.

"I was," Omi said, after a few seconds of silent tapping.

"But … not any more?" Ken asked.

Omi shook his head.

Ken kept his gaze firmly fixed on the floor. He felt like the stalemate between them had ended, but he was unsure about what he should do or say. Considering his recent past history with both his teammates, as well as the unpopularity of his outspoken views on Aya's personality, the ex-goalie was terrified of doing or saying something that would, once again, open a gulf between them. Omi wasn't much help. He continued quietly tapping away at the computer, engrossed in the information flashing across his monitor. Ken couldn't help but think the young blonde had forgotten he was even present. As soon as the surly, petulant thought crossed his mind, the ex-goalie did his best to rid himself of it. He was jealous of the attention Omi was devoting to finding Aya. He knew it was selfish and ridiculous, but, all the same, the thought and feelings were there, no matter how hard he tried to stuff them down.

After several minutes of silence, broken only by the hum of the computer's hard drive and the clacking of Omi's fingers flying over the keys, Ken cleared his throat. He never had been very good with silences. He was a person who craved noise and life. Silence put him on edge, made him nervous, made him feel like he'd done something wrong.

"Yohji's still mad," Ken said. His voice was soft, barely a mumble, and he never lifted his head, instead, keeping his gaze fixed on the floor between his bare feet.

Omi shrugged in response, a gesture Ken saw out of the corner of his eye. Just as he was wondering what the boy meant by that noncommittal reply, Omi's voice broke the silence.

"Yeah, well … Yohji and Aya … they're like … you and me," Omi said. Ken looked up to find the boy, once again, staring at him through the glazed-over reflection in the computer monitor. "He'll get over it, eventually … when we find Aya," Omi continued. He paused for a moment, and then added, his voice quiet and small, sounding almost lost in the vastness of the room, "If Aya's still alive, that is."

"And … if he's not?" Ken asked. His words were slow, hesitant, as if he didn't want to know the answer, but, still, had to ask the question.

Omi shrugged again. "If he's not … I don't know," the young blonde said. "Probably he'll never get over it. It's not you he's mad at. He's mad at himself, blaming himself for what happened … for Aya being gone. It's just easier. Easier for him to hate you than himself."

"Like I did with Aya," Ken said.

The desk chair's squeak attracted Ken's attention from the floor. He looked up to find Omi had twisted around to face him, a serious, earnest expression in his dull, glazed, dead-tired eyes. "Maybe … sort of," Omi said, searching for the right words, "But … you … I think, on some level … really do hate Aya. I don't know why … and, I guess, I don't really want to know, unless you want to tell me. But, that's something … well, I think it's the one thing he can't ever forgive. When we find Aya … well, I think Yohji will be able to forget, but he'll never truly forgive you. Your feelings about Aya … you're going to have to come to terms with them. For your sake, as well as for the sake of the team."

Ken thought about Omi's words. The young blonde was right, and he hated it. Omi was wise beyond his years, which gave him the uncanny tendency of, almost always, being right. Still, knowing that didn't make the words any easier for Ken to digest. It was true. On some level, he hated Aya. He didn't even know why, exactly. Maybe they were just too different --- fire against ice, noise against silence, righteous rage at the world against the desire for revenge. Maybe it was because he kept seeing that first night they'd met Aya, when the redhead was still working freelance, and Birman had invited him into their group. He kept seeing Aya, defeated, wrapped in Yohji's wire, unable to move, Birman's gun at his temple, and, yet, refusing to admit he'd been beaten. He could still see the defiant glare in the redhead's eye, as if he'd been daring Birman to pull the trigger. Ken didn't know why, but he'd hated the swordsman from that moment in time, had despised Aya for refusing to give in, for refusing to be beaten. The truth was, Ken realized, he had always felt like he had sold out by joining Weiss, instead of trying to work his way out of the quagmire that had become his life when Kase had betrayed him. And, he supposed, in the end, that was why he really hated Aya --- because the redhead was stronger than him, because Aya hadn't sold out, because he'd been forced into joining Weiss, into being Kritiker's killing dog.

He glanced back toward his friend and found the young blonde still watching him with that same intent, earnest expression. Ken wanted to tell Omi how he felt, wanted to pour out his heart and soul, wanted to explain why he hated Aya, especially since he had, only now, figured it out for himself. But, somehow, he couldn't seem to find the words.

"What if … what if I can never like him?" Ken asked. He felt miserable, seeing a lifetime of alienation from Yohji, a man who was like a brother to him.

Omi sighed and smiled, a sad, sympathetic expression that let Ken know, in no uncertain terms, the boy understood how he felt. That was what the ex-goalie liked so much about his companion, what drew him to Omi's friendship. The young blonde always understood him, even if he didn't understand himself. And, Omi was always willing to accept him for who and what he was, even the deepest, blackest parts of his soul, the parts he tried to hide away from the light. Suddenly, the blonde's words echoed back to Ken … _"Yohji and Aya … they're like … you and me"_, and the ex-goalie wondered if this was how Yohji felt about Aya, and vice versa.

"Maybe you won't be able to," Omi said. The soft sound of his voice drew Ken's attention away from his thoughts. "You and Aya … you're probably too different, personality-wise, to ever really get along. But, for your sake, Ken, you need to at least try not hating him."

Ken nodded. He smiled at Omi, a lopsided grin that showed his embarrassment, and looked back toward his feet as the boy turned his attention back to the computer.

"For what it's worth," Omi said, after a few minutes of silent typing, "You're wrong about him."

The boy's fingers stilled their rhythm as Omi shifted, leaning back in his chair to retrieve something from his front pocket. He handed the object, a crumpled piece of paper, to Ken, who smoothed it out against his knee and leaned forward, more into the light from the computer monitor, so he could see it. It was the picture of Aya --- the one Yohji had found at the warehouse. When Ken glanced up from the photograph, he found Omi had, once again, turned to face him.

"If he was like you think … such an asshole … he never would have done that," Omi said, pointing at the photograph for emphasis. "All of that … what you see there … was because of me. He did it for me … gave himself to that asshole Harrister to protect me. It's the only reason I was able to walk out of there without so much as a scratch." Omi paused, allowing time for the meaning behind his words to sink in. "And, for the record," he continued, "what happened on that mission … it wasn't Aya's fault. It was mine. I got careless and let myself be taken. Aya jumped in at the club … just like when Harrister had us … to save me. If he hadn't been there … I would have been in the next batch of mission photos Kritiker sent over on that guy. I know you probably want to think otherwise, but I didn't want to leave him. I wanted to stay, even if it meant Harrister would kill me … but Aya … made me go. He said it was the only way … to get help … but … I think he already knew he was dying. He didn't think he'd be able to protect me any more, and he wanted to know I was safe. He didn't care about himself at all. Knowing I did what I did … that I left him behind, probably, to die alone … I'm going to have to live with that for the rest of my life. I have to believe he's alive … otherwise, I can't stand the sight of my reflection in the mirror."

Ken didn't know what to say. He stared back at Omi's unblinking gaze and felt small --- petty and ashamed. As always, Omi was right, damn him. Ken hated that.

The silence between them lengthened and grew, taking on a life of its own until neither of them could break it, no matter how awkward or uncomfortable they felt about the revelations that had passed between them. Omi cleared his throat, a soft sound the silence gobbled up, and turned back toward the computer. His fingers resumed the familiar, tip-tapping tempo so at least there was some noise in the room. Ken stared at the young blonde for several minutes. He knew he should say something --- his friendship and his feelings for Omi demanded that --- but, he didn't know what to say. He was startled by Omi's revelation. In truth, he hadn't realized the boy felt that way … well, hadn't given it a second thought, really. And, now that he knew how Omi felt, he had no idea how to respond or comfort his suffering friend.

"What're you gals doing down here in the dark, anyhow? Making out?"

Ken sighed a little in relief when Yohji's voice boomed out from the doorway, breaking the tense, uncomfortable silence.

Ken and Omi both turned to watch the tall blonde enter the room. As always, Yohji had on his sunglasses, and a lit cigarette dangled from his lips. It bobbed up and down as he spoke, and they could see the glowing orange of its ember reflected in the dark lenses. His wet, disheveled hair hung loose around his shoulders, telling the two youngest Weiss Yohji had just emerged from the shower. The chain-smoking playboy wore a slightly wrinkled gray T-shirt with the words "REALITY BITES" emblazoned across the front in large, red letters, and a slightly more wrinkled pair of jeans. But, the clothes appeared to be clean, which was a plus around the Koneko these days. Although cleanliness had improved his appearance dramatically, the tall blonde still looked exhausted. His face was pale, thin, and drawn, and his hands shook despite his best efforts at controlling the tremors, testament to how little sleep and food and how much nicotine and caffeine he'd had. The dark glasses hid his eyes, especially in conjunction with the darkness of the briefing room, but Omi knew, if he looked, he'd find heavy, bruise-like circles under them.

"What the fuck?" Yohji asked as he reached the computer and came to a stop just behind Omi's chair and to the side of Ken's. He pulled his glasses down to glare at his two teammates with dull, exhausted, jade green eyes. "What the fuck're you staring at?"

Ken looked away, returning his gaze to the floor. Yohji was in a fickle temper lately. The tall blonde's nerves had been frazzled beyond the breaking point, and it was impossible to tell what might set him off. The ex-goalie didn't want to have any kind of physical altercation with Yohji. He knew it was something they would both regret later on, but, he also knew the slightest provocation on his part would be enough to light the older man's short fuse.

Omi, though, continued to stare at their oldest teammate. The boy matched Yohji glare for glare until the older blonde finally shrugged, indicating an end to the standoff.

Omi snorted slightly, a small hint of laughter, and shook his head as he replied, "The walking dead."

Now it was Yohji's turn to snort at Omi's little joke. "Like you have any fucking room to talk. You look like shit warmed over twice. At least I'm clean."

Omi shrugged, signaling that Yohji had won the round. The tall blonde smiled and turned his attention to Ken, who was still staring at the floor between his feet. He reached over and ruffled the ex-goalie's hair, eliciting a yelped protest from Ken, which was enough to make Omi laugh.

"And you," Yohji said, ignoring Ken's baleful glare, "Taking advantage of our little Omi this way. I woulda thought, if anyone would, you would respect his virginal innocence."

"Virginal," Omi said, a sarcastic edge to his voice, "That's an awfully big word for you. Been reading the dictionary again, have you?"

Yohji laughed. "Only the interesting parts."

He reached over, around Omi's head, to flip on the desk lamp, which rested on the shelf above the computer monitor. Just as his hand brushed the switch, Omi stopped him.

"Don't you dare," the young blonde said.

Yohji pulled back and gave the boy an eyebrows raised, questioning look. "What? You're gonna go blind like this. You've been down here in the fucking dark for I don't know how fucking long already. You **_wanna_** be blind?"

Omi shrugged. "This place … it's a fucking pit. I made the mistake of leaving the light on the first night, and I thought I'd have a heart attack because of all the crap everywhere. I figure blindness is better than a heart attack any day. Besides, this way, when I hear things scurrying around in all the ash and trash you idiots have scattered all over the place, I can just tell myself it's my imagination. If I had the light on, I'd be able to see what was coming after me." He glanced up, studying Yohji's reflection in the computer monitor, and added, all kidding aside, "Aya's gonna blow a gasket when he gets home."

Yohji shrugged.

"So, have you found anything yet?" the tall blonde asked, leaning forward to peer over Omi's shoulder.

The boy nodded. "Yeah, actually," he said, hitting the print key with a last stroke of his finger.

He waited for a few moments while the printer whirred and clicked. When it was finished, he leaned over with a small grunt and retrieved the sheet of paper the machine had spit out.

"Once I had that fuckhead Harrister's name, I had all the puzzle pieces," Omi said, looking down at the paper in his hand as he talked. He leaned closer to the monitor, so that its blue, electronic glow illuminated the writing. "I just had to put them together … which, took way too fucking long because this guy's a freaking ghost. I mean … there's more information on us out there than this guy, even with knowing his name. Looks like he didn't own that warehouse where he kept us. Probably rented. But, that's a bust, anyhow. He won't take Aya back there. He's arrogant, but not that arrogant. Other than the club, I found one property --- a townhouse on the city's north side. So, if we're gonna find any leads to Aya's location, it's either the club, which hasn't been open since he grabbed us, or the town house." Omi looked up at Yohji, waiting for some kind of response to the implied question buried within this newly-revealed information. When Yohji didn't say anything, the young blonde prompted, "So, what do you think? What do you want to do?"

Yohji sighed. "I hate making decisions," he muttered, running his hands through his still-damp hair. "Aya's the decision guy, not me." When Omi continued to watch him, making it obvious the boy wasn't going to let him worm out of this so easily, the tall blonde sighed, and said, "I know it hasn't been open … but, my gut tells me we need to check out that club. I don't know … but … it's where all this started … maybe where everything started, if what you said is true, and Harrister was the target, all along. I think … probably … he'd go back there."

"Good enough," Omi said.

Yohji was relieved when the boy seconded his decision. It was stupid, but he felt better knowing he wouldn't have to shoulder the blame all alone if he had chosen incorrectly and the delay cost Aya his life.

"You go check out the club," Omi continued, unaware of the taller blonde's crisis of faith, "And, I'm gonna go visit Aya's sister." He looked up from the printout in his hand to find both Yohji and Ken staring at him. "What?" he asked. "Look, Aya used to go visit her every day … and, he's been gone for a while. I just think … well, I think he'd like it if someone looked in on her. I don't know … I just get the feeling … well, he wouldn't want her to be alone."

"You're right," Yohji said. He smiled at the boy, a crooked, lopsided, little-boy grin, and continued, "I'm just fucking ashamed I didn't think of it myself."

Omi smiled back. "You've had other things on your mind. We all have."

Yohji nodded. "Just do me one favor," he said. In response to Omi's questioning glance, he replied, "Wear a cap, OK? Your hair looks like shit."

Omi couldn't help but laugh, which made Yohji smile and broke the tension in the room.

The tall blonde turned toward Ken. "And you?" he asked.

Ken shrugged, "I'm going with you, of course." When Yohji gave him a disbelieving, eyebrows-raised look, the ex-goalie shrugged again and muttered, "Well, can't just let you run off halfcocked by yourself, you know."

* * *

Omi walked down the silent, sterile, white hallway of Magic Bus Hospital. At each door, he slowed a bit to read the patient's name, only to move on again upon discovering it was the wrong room. He had followed Aya here once, but he hadn't been back since then. He couldn't remember which room the girl was in. He had brought a large flower arrangement --- two dozen white roses --- and, each time he paused to read a name, he had to shift them to a more comfortable position. He guessed it was silly, really, bringing flowers to a girl who'd never know they were there. Still, he remembered Aya mentioning, one time, how much his sister loved white roses. He knew the redhead brought some every time he came, and Omi figured it was the least he could do.

He paused in front of the tenth door along the hallway, reading the name and sighing in frustration upon discovering yet another incorrect room. Having to face Aya's sister, coma or not, was going to be bad enough. Did finding her room have to be so damn hard, too? It was just compounding the problem. Omi figured, by the time he finally found the girl, he'd be so uncomfortable he'd never be able to explain what had happened to her brother. The boy was just beginning to wonder how many damn rooms were in this wing, and whether he was going to have to search them all, when a kind, soft voice startled him.

"Excuse me, young man. You seem lost … can I … help you?"

Omi whirled around to see a nurse smiling at him. She was older, maybe forty. She wore her hair pulled back in a neat bun, hidden beneath her cap, but a few graying strands had come loose and hung about the woman's temples. As Omi regarded her, she shifted her weight a bit and brushed at the front of her starched, white uniform, a self-conscious, almost embarrassed gesture. She had a nice smile, which even seemed to reach her blue-gray eyes, and she seemed very kind and sincere in her offer of assistance. Omi couldn't help but smile back at her.

"Um … yes," he said, shifting the roses yet again. He cleared his throat, trying to overcome a sudden wave of shyness, and said, "I'm looking for someone … a, um … a patient. Aya Fujimiya?"

Omi shuddered inside when he said the name. He knew Aya had taken his little sister's name after she had been injured, but it still gave him the creeps to hear the name he associated with the redhead echo through the deserted hallway. He knew he was imagining it, but it almost seemed as if the word reverberated through the corridor several times, like some kind of omen. He tried to shrug off the feeling, and struggled to continue smiling at the nurse.

"Oh," the woman replied. "Are you a … family member? She's one of my patients, but I don't remember seeing you here before."

Omi couldn't help but think how ridiculous the nurse's statement sounded. Like she worked all the time and knew every single person who came to visit Aya's sister. The boy chided himself for his cynicism and reminded himself the woman was nice and helpful. She was probably just trying to be friendly, and she couldn't possibly know the strain he was under.

"No," he said, shaking his head for emphasis, "I'm just … just a friend."

"Oh, well, then," the nurse said, her smile returning to light up her face. "How nice of you to come visit. Her room is right down here. Come. I'll show you."

She led the way down the hall, to the second-to-last room on the right, and gestured, indicating this was the door he wanted. When Omi caught up with her, she opened the door for him, standing aside to give him enough room to get the large bouquet through unscathed.

"Poor little thing," she said.

Omi turned his head enough to see her around the bulky flower arrangement. She was shaking her head, her eyes full of sympathy and sadness.

"So young," the nurse replied to the silent question she saw in Omi's eyes. "For this to happen. For something so terrible. Just a baby, really … well, no older than you. Her brother is so devoted. Comes every day to sit with her and hold her hand. He brings the most beautiful white roses … just like those," she said, pointing at the flowers Omi held clutched to his chest. "But … well, I haven't seen him in several days. I guess it's only natural. After all, she's been here a long time. I mean, it's only natural he would give up hope, eventually. No matter how devoted, family members always do, in the end. They have to go on living, and, somehow, they just can't do it if they cling to their hope. Once they realize that, well … they usually don't come around any more." She paused for a moment before continuing, "Still, I never thought it would happen to him. He seemed like such a determined, single-minded young man."

Omi followed the woman's gaze across the room, to where a still, frail girl lay, motionless. The bed seemed to swallow her, making her look even smaller and more fragile, if such a thing was possible.

"He hasn't," Omi said, turning his attention back toward the nurse.

"Pardon?" the woman asked. The boy's voice had been so soft she wasn't sure she'd heard him correctly.

"Her brother," Omi said, pitching his voice a bit louder, but, yet, still keeping it low enough so it couldn't carry across the room. It was silly, since Aya was in a coma, but, still, Omi didn't want her to find out about her brother like this. "Her brother hasn't given up on her," he repeated. Everything he does … it's all for her. He … he lives for her." He juggled the flower arrangement once more, shifting it so its weight rested against his shoulder, before continuing, "He … he's … um, he's missing. That's why … um … why he hasn't been here."

"Missing?" the nurse repeated.

Omi sighed and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling as he wondered just how idiotic this nurse could possibly be. What the hell did "missing" usually mean? Did he really have to explain it to the woman? But, even as the thought escaped him, Omi chastised himself for, once again, being so cynical. He was glad his face was hidden behind the roses, so the nurse hadn't seen his eye roll, and he shrugged his irritation off as stemming from the exhaustion and despair he'd felt pounding away at him ever since he had left Aya alone in that warehouse.

He didn't look back at the nurse, but he said, "Um … yeah. Missing … He … um, he was kidnapped."

Omi turned to face the nurse at the woman's sharp intake of breath. She had gone pale and held her hand up to her face, covering her mouth. Her eyes wore an expression of fear and grief, and Omi realized she was a very kind person, indeed, and very devoted to her patient.

"That's … that's so horrible," the woman said. "What kind of world do we live in, anyhow? He's such a nice, quiet, polite young man, too. I certainly hope they find him."

Omi smiled at her and said, "Yes, I hope so, too."

"Well," the nurse said, smiling in return as she smoothed at the front of her uniform and cleared her throat. "I'll … um … I'll just leave you two alone, then. I'll be at the nurses' station, just down the hall, if you … um, if you need anything."

She turned and left the room, failing to even pause in response to the "Thank you" Omi called out after her retreating figure.

Omi took a deep breath and squared his shoulders as he struggled to prepare himself to face Aya's sister. After a few moments, he managed to work up enough courage to walk the few feet separating him from her bed, but he didn't look at her --- not at first. Instead, he fussed with the flowers for several long, silent minutes, finding the perfect spot for the overstuffed vase, pinching off a spotted leaf here, a wilted bud there, pulling and tugging at the blossoms until they were mounded neatly in an attractive, overflowing arrangement. He continued to fuss until he realized he was stalling for time, trying either to avoid the inevitable, or to find a gentle way to tell the girl her brother was missing, and, possibly, dead. Omi shook his head, irritated with himself for being such a coward about this. After all, Aya was in a coma. She probably couldn't hear anything he told her, and, even if she could, it wasn't like he would have to face a hysterical, crying girl. And, she wouldn't be able to blame him for her brother's disappearance.

He gave the flowers one last tug and sighed as he turned to face the girl. He pulled a chair next to the bed and sat down. Although he had known about Aya's sister for a while, Omi hadn't been in this room before, and this was the first time he'd seen the girl. As he studied her, he realized the nurse had been correct about their ages. She was, maybe, a few months younger than him. She had thick, brown hair. The nurse had braided it into two long, thick braids and then arranged them on Aya's pillow so they seemed to float out around her head. He could see a scattering of freckles across her cheeks and nose. Had she been healthy, Omi guessed they wouldn't have been noticeable, but they stood out in stark contrast to her pale skin. She was a very pretty girl, and Omi couldn't help thinking, had she been awake, he would have been tongue-tied in her presence.

A small glint of light prompted him to open her hand, and, there, laid across her palm, was a gold earring --- a small ball post with a rectangular, dangling bar attached to it. Omi recognized it as the mate to the one Aya always wore. He had wondered about the earring, but had never guessed it had such significance to his missing teammate. He felt a lump come up in his throat, and, as he, once again, closed her fist around the earring, he struggled to swallow back the tears he felt gathering.

Omi leaned forward and took her hand between both of his. "I … um … I … uh guess you're Aya," he said. His voice was so quiet it seemed almost lost in the big, white room. He cleared his throat and struggled to continue, "We … um … we've never met before. I'm … Omi. I … um … I live with Ay … um, your brother. I … guess … uh … you're probably wondering where Ay … um, your brother's … been lately, since he hasn't been by. He … he hasn't forgotten you. He …"

His voice trailed off into nothing as he stared at the silent girl, so fragile and small in the bed before him, like an injured bird. He struggled to come up with the words that would tell her her brother was gone … missing … and, maybe, even dead. How could he tell her? She had already lost so much. How could he take this away from her, too? How could he say the words that would, once and for all, take away the one thing she had left in this world? He wanted to tell her in a way that would help her feel better about it … that would make it sound less horrible than it really was. After a few moments of staring and struggling, though, Omi realized there wasn't any way to cushion the blow. There wasn't any way to make it sound less horrible than it was, and he decided just to forge ahead as best he could.

He took another deep breath and rubbed her hand with his thumb. "Um … the truth is … that … Well … you see … um … Ay … uh … your brother … Well, the truth is …"

Omi's voice trailed off again as words failed him. He had managed to remain strong, to remain focused on finding Aya, but, now, he could feel that composure slipping. He couldn't help but wonder at how weak-willed he was, if a slip of an unconscious girl could do this to him. But, it wasn't just that. It was … part of it was that he was having to tell this girl her reason for living might be gone, that his words were going to yank her world out from under her. But, that was only part of it. The rest was that he didn't want to say the words. It was silly, but, somehow, he felt like saying it out loud would make it true. He had to tell Aya her brother might be dead, but, if he said those words, they would seem real. He would have lost his hope, his reason for remaining strong and resolute.

He leaned forward, shoving his cap back so he could rest his forehead against the bedrail. He could feel the cold metal through his bangs. He felt the tears gathering in his eyes, but he didn't fight them. Instead, he just let them come, and they slid down his cheeks, a torrent of anguish, fear, despair, and anger. They dropped from his face and left large, wet spots on the pristinely white hospital sheets. A few even dropped onto Aya's hand, where they beaded up before sliding off.

"This is … so … fucking … hard," Omi said, his words choked and almost lost among the sobs shaking his body. "Why? Why is this so hard? I didn't think … I didn't think it'd be like this … it'd be so fucking hard."

He raised his head and looked at the girl's silent, sleeping face. Without bothering to wipe away the tears that continued to spill from his eyes, Omi, once again, took her hand in his and said, "Aya … I'm … I'm so sorry. But, your brother … he's gone … missing. He … he was kidnapped … by … by a very evil man. But, we're trying to find him … me … and the rest of his friends. We're trying so hard … and, we won't stop looking for him … not ever … not until we find him. I … I promise. I promise …we **_will_** find him. Just … try and have faith … try to believe he'll be all right. He's so strong … you know that … better than anyone, right? So … just believe … believe in him … just like we're trying hard to do."

"Um … excuse me?" a soft voice called from the door.

Omi jumped at the unexpected intrusion. He turned, swiping at the tears tracing his cheeks, to find the nurse from before, the one who had shown him Aya's room, standing in the doorway, looking embarrassed and uncomfortable. Omi realized she must have overheard most of what he had said.

He smiled at her and said, "Yes?"

"Um … are you … Omi?" the nurse asked. She smoothed at the front of her uniform and glanced down at her shoes.

"Yes," he replied, rising from his chair.

"I'm so sorry to interrupt … um … your visit. But, there's a phone call for you. You can take it at the nurses' station, if you like."

Omi was across the room and moving through the door almost before she finished her statement. "Thanks," he muttered as he brushed past her and into the hallway.

He was breathing hard by the time he reached the nurses' station, not from exertion, but from anxiety. He struggled to slow his racing heartbeat as he took the offered telephone receiver from one of the nurses. He smiled and nodded his thanks as he turned his back on them and, with a shaking hand, brought the receiver up to his ear.

"Hel … Hello?" he said. He cringed at how his voice sounded --- uncertain, lost, and scared --- like a little kid's.

"Hey, kiddo," Yohji said.

His smooth, slightly teasing voice seemed to ooze right out of the phone, even now, in such a time of crisis. Omi was amazed the tall blonde managed to stay so calm. Still, the boy couldn't help but feel a bit relieved at the relaxed tone that was so normal for the older man. It had to mean they hadn't found Aya at the club, as it was definitely not the voice of a man who had just found his best friend's dead body.

"Yohji," Omi replied. He paused for two heartbeats, waiting for the blonde to speak, and then, impatient, plunged ahead. "The club?"

"Bust," Yohji said. "Totally deserted … But, there was a hidden room in the basement. Looks like he did return there … had Aya in there, and, pretty recent, too. Fresh blood all over the place."

Omi was quiet as he digested the new information. "So, do you think …"

"No," Yohji said, cutting the boy off before he could finish his thought. "No. Don't go there. As long as we haven't found a body, he's very much alive, in my book."

Omi nodded, a silly reflexive gesture, as he knew the other man couldn't see him. "So, now… the townhouse?" he asked.

"Yep," Yohji said. "We're coming by to pick you up, so meet us downstairs. We'll be there in ten." The tall blonde clicked off, severing the connection before Omi could reply.

* * *

It took them a little over an hour to make the drive across the city from the hospital to Harrister's townhouse. Once they reached the correct neighborhood, Yohji found a shady, unobtrusive parking spot on a side street several blocks away. They stowed Seven there and walked to the townhouse in silence. By the time they stood in front of the address Omi's research had indicated, it was noon.

Harrister's townhouse, like all the other homes in this particular neighborhood, was built in the Western style. It was large, brick, had three stories, and was on the top of a hill, which gave it a very nice view of the surrounding area. Although there wasn't a yard, it had a large, three car garage attached at one side. All in all, the building's size, as well as the general, shaded quiet of the surrounding neighborhood, spoke of wealth and affluence.

Yohji whistled as he pulled down his sunglasses and observed the brick building over their rims. He tilted his head back, hands on his hips, and took in the entire scene, from first story to third. "Hot damn," he said, flipping his spent cigarette onto the ground with a flick of his wrist and, in almost the same movement, removing his ever-present pack so he could fish around for another of the sticks. He tapped the new ciggie against the box as he said, "Shit. This place is fucking huge … I mean fucking huge. Looks like being a serial killer pays pretty damn well."

Ken cleared his throat before replying, "Well, we get paid pretty well for doing it, don't we?"

Yohji gave the ex-goalie a sideways, eyes-narrowed glance. "Hnh … never quite thought about it like that," he said as he flicked on his lighter and puffed at the cigarette until the end started glowing.

"So," Omi broke in. He was impatient to get this over and done with in the hopes it would bring them closer to finding Aya, and he also wanted to head off any conflict between his two teammates before it had a chance to escalate. At the moment, Yohji appeared mellow and uninterested in fighting, but Omi knew, from experience, that could change at any second. "What now?"

Yohji shrugged. "What do you think, ladies? I decided on searching the club … I told you I'm not the decision man."

"I think we should just go in the front," Ken said. "Act like we belong here … repairmen or something … then no one will be suspicious."

Yohji gave the ex-goalie an incredulous stare. "How the hell many times did you hit the ball with your fucking head when you were playing soccer?" he asked. "In this fucking neighborhood? Give me a fucking break. They're already nervous and suspicious of us, and we haven't even done anything yet. And, the front door? What're we gonna do? Walk up, ring the fucking bell, and when Harrister answers, ask him, real nice, if he'll tell us where Aya is?"

"All right," Omi said. His voice held an edge of steel to it, a warning to his two teammates. "Shut it. Now's not the time. I say we go in through the garage. I saw some windows on the side when we walked up. I think we can get in without anyone seeing us … and, if there's an alarm, which I'm sure there is, it's not likely the garage'll be wired."

* * *

Ten minutes later, they were standing in Harrister's large, commercial-grade kitchen. It looked like every stainless steel appliance ever made had come here to die. There seemed to be miles and miles of the shiny gray metal, as well as dark blue granite countertops, and cherry wood cabinetry. The floor was a blue and white checked tile. None of the assassins spared much attention for the room's details, although Yohji gave it a quick and thorough once-over as he leafed through Harrister's unopened mail.

"What?" the tall blonde asked, in response to the glare Omi gave him. He kept his voice pitched low, barely more than a whisper, but, even so, it sounded loud in the house's silence. He held one of the envelopes up to the light, muttering, "Look at this shit … this asshole may already be a winner. I didn't know he could play the fucking Publisher's Clearing House here in Japan."

"We didn't come here for that," Omi whispered, emphasizing his words with another glare. "Put that shit down. We don't have time for you to fuck around."

"Who's fucking around?" Yohji hissed. He shrugged. "I used to be a PI, remember. I can't help it … I see mail lying around, unopened, and I gotta look through it … same thing with garbage cans. Can't resist 'em."

Omi sighed. "Well, try," he replied. "There have to be about a billion of them in a house this size … you stop to go through them all and it'll be next year before we find Aya." He glared at Yohji again. "I said put that down," he repeated.

Yohji shrugged again, but he tossed the envelopes onto the nearest counter. As he did, the top one caught his eye, and he retrieved it, glancing at it briefly before stowing it in the inner pocket of his jacket. In response to Omi's raised-eyebrow, questioning look, the tall blonde said, "Credit application … pre-approved." When his two teammates stared at him in disbelief, the older man waved his hands in front of him in a placating gesture and said, "Look … it's not like he's gonna need good credit. Not where he's going. And … well, we could use a new big-screen TV … with this credit line, we could buy plasma."

"That's illegal," Omi said.

Yohji couldn't help laughing. He put his hand over his mouth to stifle the noise when his two teammates tried to shush him, but he couldn't manage to stop completely. It was too damn funny. The kid actually managed to sound shocked. It beat the hell out of Yohji how he did it, but, somehow, he did. That was Omi for you --- deadly serious, take-charge assassin one minute, innocent high-school kid the next.

Once he managed to get his laughter under control, Yohji said, "Like I care … don't forget what our "night" jobs are … so … credit card fraud looks so bad in comparison?"

Omi frowned. "Yeah, I suppose you've got a point." The younger blonde paused for a moment, before continuing, "All right, what do you guys want to do? Go together or split up? Remember, there was a van in the garage, and the keys are here on the counter … so, we have to assume Harrister is home."

Yohji shrugged. "I vote split up. This place is fucking huge. It'll take forever to search if we go together."

Omi nodded his agreement. "It's risky, but worth it. Ken?"

The ex-goalie shrugged his assent. "I'll take the third floor."

"All right," Omi said, keeping his voice pitched low, "I'll take this floor … so, Yohji, that leaves the second floor for you."

* * *

"I really, fucking hate this shit," Yohji muttered as he made his way down the large hallway on the second floor. "Hated it when I was a PI …"

He paused to jiggle a doorknob, and, finding it locked, fished around in his back pocket for his lock pick. The door swung open after two sharp, quick tugs, and Yohji leaned around the doorjamb for a quick look around the room. It was nice --- some kind of guest bedroom, from the looks of it --- all blue silk and tapestries hanging on the walls. But, there wasn't any sign of Harrister or Aya, so the chain smoking blonde moved on to the next door.

"And I still fucking hate it," he continued, under his breath, as he jiggled the next lock, and finding it open, repeated the same look-around procedure on this room. "Nice to see some things never fucking change," he muttered, as he moved on to the next room, picking the lock and taking a quick look around.

Another bedroom. Yohji ducked out, pulling the door closed behind him. He glanced back, toward the stairway. He figured there had to be at least six rooms opening out onto this hallway. So far, he had looked into half of them, and they'd all been bedrooms. "What the fuck does one guy need with so many fucking bedrooms, anyhow?" Yohji muttered, as he continued on, jiggling locks, opening doors, and looking into rooms. "Although … I mean … I could probably find a good use for them."

"Well," he muttered, under his breath, as he stood before the last door. "If there's nothing in here, my trip down bedroom lane was a total and complete bust." He jiggled the knob. The door was unlocked, and he nudged it open with his foot, mumbling, "Some kinda shit going on around here. This place is too quiet … too fucking creepy quiet … like something's happened … something bad."

The door swung open to reveal the library. A bank of windows stood along the wall opposite the door, and sunlight poured through them. The other walls were lined with shelf after shelf of books. If pressed, Yohji would have guessed there had to be thousands of volumes. The paneling and flooring were a nice, gold-red hued mahogany, and several expensive-looking, Persian rugs covered the floor. A huge fireplace with a sitting area in front of it --- three arm chairs and a big, overstuffed, leather sofa --- stood to the right side of the doorway, and a gigantic desk, made of the same gold-red mahogany as the paneling and floor, stood toward the middle of the room.

Yohji sighed and crossed the floor in five long strides to stand before the monstrous desk. A dark haired man slumped forward over it. A large pool of congealing blood covered the once-shiny desktop surface, and the red liquid had dripped down its legs to puddle on the floor, where it stained the rug a deep rust color. He couldn't see what was left of the man's face, but he knew it had to be Harrister. After all, it was the guy's house. He didn't bother checking for a pulse. The blood splattered across the windows behind the desk told the tall blonde the man was dead. Yohji fished out his switchblade and flicked it open. He used it to prod at the blood on the desk and then stooped down to do the same thing with the congealing pool on the floor. It was still fresh, and there wasn't any smell, so Yohji figured the guy couldn't have been dead for very long. Maybe Harrister had killed himself that morning … but, no earlier than that. Yohji stood up and wiped his knife off on the sleeve of Harrister's shirt.

"You fucking asshole," the tall blonde muttered, kicking the leg of Harrister's chair. "Such an easy death … no fucking fair."

The body shifted a little with the chair's movement, and a glint caught Yohji's eye. It looked like a small piece of metal, under one of Harrister's palms. Yohji shoved the chair, hard, with his foot, and the body toppled over onto the floor, revealing a dangling gold earring --- a round post with a hanging, rectangular bar attached to it. The tall blonde recognized it immediately. Aya's earring. His eyes narrowed in rage. Who the fuck did this asshole think he was that he could take something like that? Before he could think better of it, Yohji aimed a savage kick at Harrister's body. It landed with a sickening, sucking thump and caused the corpse to roll slightly to one side. Yohji scooped the earring up off the desk and shoved it into his jeans pocket. He didn't even want to think about what this meant. It had to mean Aya was dead. Otherwise, he'd never give up that earring.

Yohji shook his head. 'No,' he thought. 'I don't care. It can't mean that. He can't be dead. Not after all this.'

He kicked the body once more before making his way to the hall.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Up here … second floor, last door!"

The pounding of two sets of feet, one from above and one from below, rewarded his call. Within moments, Omi skidded into view at the other end of the hall, Ken following right on his heels.

"Aya?" Omi called as he jogged down the corridor toward Yohji. He wanted to believe the tall blonde had found their missing teammate, but the frowning, angry expression on Yohji's face told him otherwise.

As Omi neared him, Yohji shook his head and replied, "No … but I found our host. Our recently departed host."

Omi frowned at Yohji and shoved past the older man to enter the library. Yohji followed to find him standing in the middle of the room, hands on his hips, staring at the bloody desk and mangled corpse on the floor behind it, and muttering curses under his breath.

"Well, fuck," Ken said, as he rounded the corner and skidded to a stop just inside the study. "What the fuck do we do now?"

Yohji looked over at the ex-goalie. He hated to admit it, but, when Ken was right … he was right. And, the jock was right this time. It looked like, with Harrister's little swan song, they had run up against their final dead end.

"No," Omi stated, shaking his head. "No."

"O … Omi," Yohji said.

He moved toward the boy, afraid that Omi, finally, was starting to lose it. The kid had been so strong through all this. Yohji had to admit, if the tables were turned, he would have been a mess a long time ago. But, now, faced with what had to be the end of their quest and still no closer to finding Aya, he figured the younger blonde was going to go ballistic. He knew, when Omi finally broke over this thing, it wasn't going to be pretty, and he tried to prepare himself for whatever might happen next. He came to a stop behind Omi and put his hand on the boy's shoulder.

"Omi," Yohji repeated.

Omi's only response was to shrug off Yohji's supportive touch with an angry, harsh gesture. He turned toward the older man, and Yohji saw, for the first time since they had picked him up at that coffee shop, tears glistening in the kid's eyes. To his credit, Omi didn't let the waterworks flow. He managed to grab onto his anger and screw the lid back onto his despair and grief.

He took a deep breath and said, through clenched teeth, "No. This isn't it. It can't be." He moved around the desk, heedless of the blood pooling there, and started to pull out the drawers, one by one. He dumped them onto the blood-soaked rug and sifted through their contents before moving to the next one, then the next, and the next.

Yohji and Ken stared at the boy. They understood what Omi was doing. They understood the boy had to continue to have hope, that Omi couldn't give up, not after everything he'd been through, not after everything he'd seen, and not after having to abandon Aya the way he had. Yohji, especially, understood it. Aya was his best friend --- the closest thing to a soul mate he'd ever found --- and the thought he would never know what had happened to the redhead ate away at him until it was all he could do to keep from falling to his knees right here, in the middle of Harrister's blood-soaked rug, and sobbing out all the anger, grief, frustration, and rage he felt building inside him. But, neither Yohji nor Ken had the slightest idea what Omi was looking for, and neither of them knew how to help the boy.

After several minutes of tense silence, broken only by the sound of cracking wood as Omi removed one desk drawer after another, emptied their contents onto the floor, and then smashed them, the boy gave a small, triumphant cry. He came around the desk, waving a piece of paper through the air in front of him, like a trophy.

"Look!" he cried. "This is it. This is where Aya is. I know it. I just fucking know it."

Yohji grabbed the younger blonde's wrist, stilling his hand long enough to read most of the writing on the paper. He gave Omi a skeptical look as he said, "That's … that's an invoice … for a burial plot."

Ken had come over to stand on Omi's other side. He peered at the paper over the boy's shoulder, and, then, looked up at Yohji with an expression that indicated he thought Omi had finally gone over the deep end.

"Yeah, so?" Omi snapped, glaring from Yohji to Ken, challenging them to argue with him. "Aya's here. I know it. Look. See … this date … he bought it the day after he grabbed us … the day after Aya killed his brother. This is where he put him … where he buried his brother. Aya's there, too. I just know it."

Yohji frowned. He wanted to believe Omi, but he just couldn't stretch his imagination around what the boy was saying. "That … that doesn't make any sense," he said. He glanced up at Ken for confirmation, and the ex-goalie shrugged.

Omi sighed in exasperation and rolled his eyes at the ceiling. "Like anything this crazy bastard did made any fucking sense. I'll tell you what I know … sense or not. I was there … I know this man. I know what he'd do … and I know Aya's there. I think there's a good chance he's still alive, too."

Yohji shrugged. "All right," he said, taking the paper from Omi's hand. "We don't have anywhere else to look, so it's as good a place as any. This cemetery is on this side of town … only about a mile from here. But, we need to wait until after dark." He glanced at his watch and continued, "That should give us plenty of time to go home and change into our "night shift" clothes."

Omi started to protest, but Yohji waved him into silence. "Look," the tall blonde said, "I understand, all right? Believe me … if Aya's there, I want to go there right now and dig him up with my bare, fucking hands. But, we can't go around robbing graves in broad daylight."


	10. Chapter 10

"Hey!" Omi snapped, leaning forward, over the large hole in which Yohji and Ken were standing, "Can't you dig any faster?"

His voice was low, hardly more than a whisper, but a heavy, midnight silence blanketed the cemetery and made Omi's words carry as clearly as if he had shouted. The kid's voice seemed so out of place. It ran up Yohji's spine and made his teeth itch, like the screech of fingernails across a blackboard, and he shuddered as Omi shined a flashlight in his face.

The tall blonde heaved an irritated, angry sigh and shoved the flashlight aside as he glared at Omi and fought back the urge to tell the kid to shut the hell up. He knew Omi was only being an irritating, little shit because he was nervous, scared, and almost out of hope. They all were. This was their last chance at finding Aya. If Omi was wrong, and the redhead wasn't in this grave, they'd never find him. Yohji figured the tension was getting to all of them. Even Ken had been much more subdued than usual.

Yohji took a deep breath, and, when he felt he had control of his emotions enough so that he wouldn't bite Omi's head off, he replied, "No."

At almost the same instant the word slid from his mouth, a shovelful of dirt flew in his direction and scattered over his head and shoulders. Yohji sighed --- the sound of a man struggling valiantly to hang on to his last shred of patience --- and rolled his eyes toward the inky black sky in a classic, "why me?" look, before turning to spear Ken with an angry, icy, death-glare that would have made Aya proud. It should have been enough to congeal blood and send ominous shivers up the recipient's spine. Unfortunately for Yohji, the ex-goalie's back was toward him, and the full force and effect of the glare was lost.

'Out of hope isn't the same thing as hopeless,' Yohji thought, as he pulled his attention away from his brunette teammate.

The tall blonde glanced around at his surroundings. He really hated everything about this little adventure. He hated cemeteries, especially at night, when there was no moon and it was so overcast you couldn't even see the stars. And, Yohji had to admit he hated the idea of what they were doing. He had done a lot of things in his lifetime --- things he wasn't particularly proud of --- but he'd never dreamed it would come to this --- standing in a rapidly-deepening hole in the middle of a graveyard.

'Shit,' Yohji thought, 'I'm a fucking grave-robber now. And I thought my life couldn't get any worse.'

Still, if he had to stoop to grave-robbing, Yohji supposed this was a pretty nice place in which to do it. This cemetery was large and well-kept. The hedges and grass, from what he had been able to see in the murky dark, were lush and neatly clipped. And, there were a lot of statues and towering headstones. Despite his profession, Yohji didn't know a whole lot about cemeteries. Being a successful assassin necessarily meant you didn't spend a lot of time hanging around them, but, in his limited experience, it had always seemed your higher-end graveyards had lots of nice statues and towering headstones.

Yohji shivered. The night air was chilly and damp, but the chill coursing through his body had nothing to do with the temperature. This place gave him the creeps, and so did what he was doing. The cemetery was deserted, and the night was so still. It was as if the world around the three assassins was holding its breath and watching their activity. Yohji knew it was irrational, but he kept expecting a horde of ghosts to pop out of the nearest hedge, from behind a headstone, or out of a tree. They had been digging for thirty minutes now, and he couldn't help but hope they would come to the end of their little quest soon.

Apparently, so did Omi.

The boy leaned forward, balancing his weight on one hand, and prodded at Yohji with the flashlight. "Dig!"

Yohji sighed and returned to his assigned task.

It was quiet for several long minutes as Yohji and Ken both concentrated on the task at hand. Omi hovered around the edge of the grave, occasionally chiding them to dig faster, but, mostly, just holding the flashlight without saying anything. None of them had much of a desire to talk. They were too tense, too worried, and too afraid for any real conversation. And, on some level, all three of them were horrified at what they were doing. Yohji wasn't sure which would be worse --- if they dug up this grave and didn't find Aya inside, or if they did. Either way, he was pretty sure none of them would ever talk about it again, but they'd all remember it in their waking and sleeping nightmares for some time to come.

Another shovelful of dirt flew through the air and scattered over Yohji's head and shoulders.

The tall blonde sighed and prayed for patience. He couldn't kill Ken. Not right now. If he did, he'd have to dig up the damn coffin all by himself, and that would take forever. Not that Ken was helping all that much. Yohji thought the stupid jock had probably thrown as much dirt back in the hole as he had heaped up around the sides.

"Ken," Yohji said, struggling to keep his voice calm and at whisper level, "We're never gonna to get to the bottom if you keep throwing the fucking dirt on me instead of outside the fucking hole."

The tall blonde didn't bother turning around to look at the ex-goalie, but Ken's voice sounded out behind him, soft and low, "Sorry. Accident. Wasn't paying attention."

Yohji shook his head and returned his attention to unearthing Jackie Harrister's coffin as quickly as possible. He just wanted this whole damn thing over and done with, so he could go home and wash off the stink of what he had done. But, once he gave it some serious thought, Yohji figured he'd never truly be able to wash this off. This was the kind of reek that stuck with a man, the kind of fucked-up thing you never forgot about and never quite got over doing. He just prayed Omi was right and Aya was in the coffin they were struggling to unearth. For starters, he wanted his friend back, alive, and couldn't stand the thought of never knowing what had happened to the redhead. But, that wasn't the only reason. This whole mission had been fucked up beyond all redemption from day one, and Yohji just wanted it to have some kind of positive ending. Not that finding your best friend buried alive was exactly "positive". Well, the "alive" part was. If they found Aya in here, alive, Yohji figured it would all be worth it, in the end. They hadn't gotten their target on this one. Sure, Harrister was dead, but not at Weiss's hands. They'd all have to live with that failure, but, if they found Aya, alive, then at least it wasn't all for nothing.

A third shovelful of dirt rained down upon Yohji's head, prompting the tall blonde to pause in his work, stare at the empty air directly in front of him, and say, through clenched teeth, "Ken, when we get outta here, I swear … I'm just gonna beat the ever-loving shit outta you."

Ken didn't reply, but the sound of his shovel scraping against soil paused for the smallest length of time, a two heartbeat silence that gave Yohji the satisfaction of knowing he'd at least given his teammate something to think about. The tall blonde smiled, feeling a bit better about things for having heaped some of his anger onto Ken's head. Yohji had always been a firm believer in the philosophy that anger was so much more enjoyable when you spread it around a bit, and, for some reason, spreading it Ken's way was the most enjoyable of all.

Yohji took a deep breath and slowly exhaled as he patted the front of his trench coat, fumbling around for the pack of cigarettes stowed there. He dug the box out, shook out a stick, and was tapping it against the side of the pack prior to lighting up when he noticed Omi glaring at him. Yohji ducked his head a bit, so he could look at the boy over the top rims of his sunglasses.

"What?" he asked, as he flicked his lighter open and on in one fluid motion. He kept his voice pitched low, and his words were muffled due to the cigarette clenched firmly between his lips.

"There's no time for that shit," Omi said. Yohji couldn't see the boy's expression behind the golden glare from the flashlight, but Omi's tone conveyed his disapproval in no uncertain terms.

Yohji shrugged as he replaced his pack and his lighter. He took the glowing cig from his lips and flicked a few ashes off the end of it. "Look," he said, struggling to keep his voice calm, "We're robbing a fucking grave here. Murder is bad enough … but, now, we're fucking grave robbers. We're digging up a dead fucking body, hoping to find our teammate --- my friend --- in here. Oh … and we're hoping he's alive … which means he's been in there with a dead guy for … who knows how the hell long? Fuck! Can you blame me for needing a cigarette?" Yohji paused long enough to frown in Omi's general direction, although he couldn't see anything past the glare from the flashlight the boy was using to illuminate their nighttime adventure.

"Ask me," he mumbled, the cigarette bobbing madly with his words, "Something fucking wrong with you and wonder jock here because you **_don't_** need one."

Before Omi could reply, there was a hollow thud as Ken's shovel struck the coffin lid.

"Hey! This is it! I think … I think I found it!" the ex-goalie exclaimed, his voice rising to stage whisper pitch. He scrambled out of the grave, using the hand Omi extended to him for leverage.

There was a small space all around the coffin, between it and the sides of the hole. Yohji managed to squirm into the empty space next to the coffin's latches. He wanted to find Aya, and, yet, he didn't. Yohji realized he was afraid of opening the casket. He was afraid of what he would find, and he stood there for a few seconds, staring down at the dirt scattered over its top and feeling his blood slowly turn to ice from the fear and horror coursing through him. It was wrong to feel this way. If Aya was in that box, he should be tearing the lid off with his bare hands, not standing here feeling weak and afraid. He brushed at the dirt, wanting to rip the box open, and, yet, too afraid of what he might find to carry through with that desire. His hands were shaking, and he could hear his own breath, bursting in short raspy huffs out into the still silence surrounding him, like small explosions or gunshots. He was ashamed he felt this way, but he was paralyzed, frozen in place by his own fear.

"Yohji," Omi's soft voice broke through the tall blonde's tangled thoughts, "It's all right. We're all afraid, but … we have to do this. No matter what we find. We can't walk away now."

Yohji looked up, past the yellow flashlight glare, and found Omi's earnest, almost-innocent, cornflower blue eyes staring back at him with an expression that told him the boy understood exactly how he felt --- understood and shared the emotions racing through him, twisting his insides into so many shards of ice. He didn't know how the kid could find the courage to face this new, terrifying unknown after everything he'd been through on this godforsaken mission. But, somehow, Omi did it --- reached down into the depths of his soul and pulled out enough courage so that he could pass a bit on to Yohji, too.

The tall blonde nodded. He mentally squared his shoulders and took a deep breath to steady himself as he leaned over and fumbled for the latches. Once they were free, he shoved at the lid. It opened silently, which, in retrospect, Yohji would always think of as a bit of an anticlimax. In some deep, dark recess of his mind, he expected the lid to creak ominously as he opened it. That was the way it always happened in the horror movies.

When he saw Aya, Yohji felt fear, revulsion, horror, relief, and rage wash over him in rolling waves. He couldn't decide whether to throw up, laugh, cry, or find something --- anything --- to kill. The tall blonde could feel tears gathering in his eyes and slipping under his sunglasses, but he wasn't sure which emotion had triggered them. He tried hard to swallow back the lump in his throat as he pulled off his glove and leaned into the coffin to fumble at Aya's throat, searching for a pulse. Yohji held his breath and sent a silent prayer heavenward, in the hopes that whoever was in charge up there would still listen to a grave-robber, if his motives had been pure. Apparently, pure motives counted for a lot, because, after a few seconds, Yohji felt a beat of life under his fear-numbed fingers --- slow, but steady.

"Oh … God …Aya," Yohji said. His voice was choked, the words raspy with the emotions he struggled to hold in check as he climbed into the coffin to take his injured friend into a gentle embrace.

The picture Harrister had left in the warehouse hadn't lied. Aya was a mass of injuries --- bleeding, seeping cuts, some fresh and some almost healed, covered his bare torso; one side of his head was a network of bleeding gashes, some deep enough to show white bone beneath; he was covered in blood in various stages of drying, from fresh to completely crusted. Yohji could see heavy bruising in the places not covered by cuts or blood, and he couldn't help but wonder at what kind of internal injuries Aya had suffered. All in all, there wasn't an inch of the swordsman's chest, back, or abdomen that wasn't marked in some way, and, when he added just the surface injures to the nasty head wound, Yohji couldn't believe Aya was still alive. The redhead's hands were bound by heavy, thick rope, and the tall blonde could see deep, bleeding gashes, as well as extensive bruising, on his wrists. Yohji fumbled with the ropes for a second or two before managing to work the knot free. It would have been easier to cut them, but, somehow, he couldn't bring himself to use a knife near Aya right now. It just didn't seem right.

Yohji slipped out of his black leather trench and, holding Aya in a sitting position, folded the material around the injured man. He pulled Aya to him once more, resting the swordsman's head on his shoulder, and just held him, rocking back and forth, smoothing Aya's blood-matted hair, and muttering that everything would be all right. The tall blonde could feel the sobs shuddering through his body now, and he didn't fight them any more. He let them come, pouring all his anguish, all his fear, all his grief out into the still, silent night around him. He didn't care if the others saw it, didn't care if they thought he was weak. In Yohji's mind, Omi and Ken weren't even there. It was just him and Aya in that coffin, surrounded by the heavy stillness of the cemetery.

He didn't know how long he sat there before Omi's gentle voice broke through to him, reminding him they needed to go, that Aya needed help, and right away. Yohji couldn't do more than nod. There were too many emotions whirling around his mind. But, he handed Aya up to Omi and Ken's waiting, helping hands, and then hoisted himself out of the grave.

He managed to regain control of his emotions once he stood beside the gaping hole. Yohji glared at Jackie Harrister's corpse for a second or two, before taking his still burning cigarette and flicking it into the open coffin. Satisfied at that small, physical manifestation of his hatred, he picked Aya up, careful to avoid jostling his broken body too much, and retreated to his waiting car. Ken and Omi followed him. Within minutes, they were speeding away from the cemetery, leaving behind the dug-up grave, the open coffin, and two shovels sticking out of the piles of dirt heaped around the edge of the hole.


	11. Chapter 11

_**Note:** So ... here it is ... the final installment of "Sacrifice". Again, I'd like to thank everyone who stuck with the story all the way through, and everyone who reviewed it. I'm still overwhelmed at the response this fic received. It was so completely unexpected. I ended things for this story on a rather light note ... mainly because I felt like we all needed a bit of humor to balance the darkness and heavy angst-fest that was "Sacrifice". I hope you will like the ending as much as you've enjoyed the rest of the story. Thanks again._

_tex-chan_

Aya pulled his jacket closer, hugging his arms around his waist for warmth. He flipped up the collar, and hunched his shoulders against the wind. The day was bright, sunny, and warm, but he shivered in the slight breeze. He had lost a lot of weight during the past few months, and his body hadn't come close to healing from its injuries. Even the gentle, warm wind cut right through him, setting old aches throbbing and seeking out new ones with which to torture him.

He coughed, wincing at the sudden stab of pain that lanced through not-quite-mended bones and ended, like a sharp spike, in his head. He leaned against the hospital, resting his aching head gingerly against the building's rough, concrete coolness. He knew he shouldn't be out here. If he had any sense, he would turn around, march straight up to his recently-vacated room on the fourteenth floor, and get his ass right back into that uncomfortable hospital bed with the disinfectant-smelling sheets and too-shiny bedrails. But, then, no one had ever accused him of having anything even remotely approaching good sense. So, that brought him here, leaning against the hard chill of the hospital, just outside the main entrance, fighting off the pain that seemed intent on taking up permanent residence in every joint and muscle of his body, and wondering what he should do next.

Aya sighed. He knew what the others would say. Well, he knew what Yohji would say. Ken and Omi --- they would think it, but they wouldn't have the courage to say it, at least, not to his face. Yohji, though, would get in his face, and thump him in the chest with a forefinger. Then, the tall blonde would pull his sunglasses down low on his nose to glare at him over the rims, and tell him he was pulling this "stupid-assed, drama queen shit" just to piss everyone off.

He was surprised to find he felt rather guilty about that, but not guilty enough to stay put. After four months and several rounds of reconstructive surgery, he had had enough. He hated the hospital, and he couldn't take another second of being poked and prodded, pricked and pummeled, lying awake in the dark while the squeak of rubber-soled shoes on linoleum frazzled his nerves and set his teeth on edge. Plus, he didn't want to admit this, but he hated being alone there. It wasn't so bad during the day, when Yohji or, sometimes, Omi, stayed with him. But, at night, when everything was quiet and the darkness and silence became heavy and oppressive, he was terrified.

It was like being back in that coffin. He couldn't count the number of times he had awakened in a panic from a drug-induced sleep, only to claw and tear at the sheets, his breath coming in short, harsh gasps as his mind screamed at him that he was back in that cold, dark box, buried alive. He wondered if he'd ever be able to sleep again, without memories of the coffin and that boy's dead body reaching into his subconscious to bring him, screaming and begging for mercy, into the land of wakefulness. Just two more rotten memories to add onto the fetid pile stored in the back of his brain. Come to think of it, he hadn't had a decent night's sleep since he'd joined Kritiker. Before then, actually. When he really thought about it, he hadn't had a good night's sleep since his parents' death and Aya's "accident". Maybe he was just fated to wake up screaming for the rest of his life … however long that might be.

Aya shook his head, careful of the spiking pain the small motion caused, to rid himself of his dark, brooding thoughts. No matter what he decided to do, one thing was certain: he couldn't stand around out here for much longer. His doctors had been unhappy about his decision to leave, and, if he hung around, leaning against the comfortable bulk of the hospital, someone was bound to notice and try to force him back inside. Plus, if he dawdled too long, Yohji and Omi might get here before he managed to get away. He might be able to intimidate the doctors and hospital staff into leaving him alone, but Yohji was one person he'd never be able to bully. If the tall blonde caught him out here like this, Aya knew he would drag him back into the hospital by force, if necessary.

Part of his mind knew the doctors and Yohji were right. He shouldn't leave. It was too soon --- a fact made obvious by the heroic effort it had taken for him to make it just this far. But, another part of his mind, the part that woke up screaming in the night, told him to get the hell out of Dodge just as fast as humanly possible. That was the part worth listening to, in his opinion.

He tried to salve his guilty conscience by telling himself it was pointless to stay longer. The doctors had done all they could. They had managed to reconstruct his face --- more or less. His nose would always be a tad bit crooked, and his right eye was slightly lower than his left one now, but, all in all, the flaws were hardly noticeable. Once he healed and the stitches came out, he doubted anyone would even know the difference. They had repaired the internal injuries, too, and set his broken bones. The rest was up to endurance. Besides, he might wake up screaming in his bed at the Koneko, but at least it was his bed. He didn't expect a warm reception from his teammates, but Aya needed to have familiar noises around him right now.

But, first, there was something he had to do. It had been so long since he had seen Aya, and he felt a twinge of guilt when he thought about how she must feel, lying in that bed, day after day, waiting for him to come. It wasn't like he had had any say in the matter, but that did little to allay the shame he felt over ignoring his little sister for so many months.

His mind made up and his course of action decided, Aya pushed away from the wall. He walked, slowly and a bit unsteadily, to the corner, where he hailed a cab.

* * *

Aya paused outside his sister's room, his left hand resting against the doorknob. He felt uncomfortable going in there after such a long absence. He knew he was being foolish, but the feelings wouldn't go away. Aya was in a coma. She probably had no idea she'd been alone for so many months. But, still, he couldn't shake the feelings of guilt and shame that crept over him. He almost expected her to sit up and yell at him for being such a lousy big brother and abandoning her like he had.

"You're just being stupid," he muttered, under his breath.

Still, his impromptu pep talk did little in the way of forcing his feet into motion, and he leaned his head against the door, feeling the slightly damp coolness of the wood against his cheek. After standing like that for several minutes, he took a deep breath and pushed the door open, ready for any recriminations and accusations his mind chose to visit upon him.

The strong, heady scent of fresh roses rolled over him like a tidal wave as soon as he entered. Aya stopped just a few steps into the room and stared. He couldn't believe his eyes. There were flowers everywhere. Overflowing vases full of beautiful, perfect, white roses littered the top of the dresser next to his sister's bed, the table under the window, the rolling cart that, normally, would move across the bed to hold a food tray, and even the windowsill. Containers of various shapes and sizes stood on the floor around the bed. There must have been dozens of them, each one crammed to bursting with full, luscious, dewy blossoms. Roses covered every inch of flat space in the room. The vases were so full flowers spilled from them and tumbled out onto the floor in messy, jumbled piles, and the strong, sweet scent filled every corner of the sterile, white space.

"But, how…?" Aya muttered, as he moved into the room to stop just next to the bed. He reached out and stroked the nearest, velvety petal.

"Oh, my goodness! I … didn't expect to find anyone in here," a startled voice broke into Aya's thoughts, causing him to jump slightly and turn around.

He knew he had a guilty expression on his face, as if he'd been caught somewhere he shouldn't be, or doing something he shouldn't be doing. He tried to erase it as he turned to face the nurse who had just entered the room, but he knew the best he could manage was a rather twisted, guilty-looking half-smile, since the right side of his face still wasn't functioning properly.

The nurse gave him a shy, yet warm, smile. She had two large vases of white roses in her arms, and she moved over to the dresser, shoving a few containers aside to create more room so she could deposit her burden there. With that task accomplished, she turned to face Aya with another genuine, warm smile. One of the boys who had been visiting her patient had told her the girl's brother had been kidnapped and badly injured, and, now that she saw the young man, she realized he had had a very hard time of it.

The nurse stood quietly for several moments, taking in every detail of Aya's appearance: the waxy, ashen-white pallor of his complexion, the way his clothing hung off him, the slightly stooped posture, the sling supporting his right arm, the white of bandages, which she could just barely see peeking over the collar of his shirt, and, finally, the neat, almost invisible rows of stitches on the right side of his face. If she hadn't known what to look for, she wouldn't have noticed it, but the amount of surgical work the stitching indicated surprised her. She couldn't help but wonder at why he wasn't still in the hospital, recuperating. But, then, this boy had always struck her as being a very stubborn, single-minded young man … and incredibly devoted to his sister.

Aya cleared his throat, uncomfortable at the scrutiny he was receiving from the nurse. She shrugged and smiled, embarrassed at having been caught staring. She indicated her discomfort by shifting her weight in an unconscious, almost involuntary, gesture, and stared at the floor around her shoes.

"Um … did … did you… do all this … for my sister?"

Aya's voice brought the nurse's attention away from the floor and back to him. She looked up just in time to see him gesture at the room by way of explanation.

"Oh! Uh … no. No, it wasn't me," the nurse replied quickly. Too quickly, judging from the young man's perplexed look and the way he watched her --- not saying anything, but waiting for more of an explanation. She smiled again and bent over to brush her nose against one of the flowers crowding the dresser, inhaling the sweet scent, before continuing, "Your friends brought them."

Now, Aya was really confused. It had been enough of a shock to walk in, expecting to feel guilty and ashamed over seeing his sister alone, small, and frail in her hospital bed, only to find her surrounded by beautiful, almost perfect flowers. But, for the nurse to say his "friends" had brought them was more than he could fathom. He didn't have any friends. That was the first thought that popped into his mind. Other than Aya, he didn't have anyone in the whole world. Well, there was the rest of Weiss … but, they wouldn't do something like this, would they?

"My … friends?" Aya repeated. His words were hesitant. The confused, almost shocked expression on his face matched his tone of voice.

The nurse frowned. The young men who had been visiting her patient during these past few months had all been so nice, and they all had seemed to know the girl and her brother. Now, though, she was beginning to wonder if, maybe, she had made a mistake by allowing them to visit and leave flowers.

"Well … yes," she replied, again, shifting her weight from one foot to the other and smoothing at the front of her uniform. The rubber soles of her shoes made a squeaking noise as they moved on the floor. It sent shivers up Aya's spine, although he tried hard to hide it.

After a few moments of squirming under Aya's intense gaze, the nurse looked back at him and continued, in a shy, quiet voice, "Three young men … about your age. One was, maybe, a bit older. He wore sunglasses all the time, and told her jokes when they visited. The others were a bit younger … one with blonde hair and a very sweet smile, and the other had brown hair and seemed uncomfortable with being here. Don't you know them?"

Aya nodded, his gaze traveling from the flowers, to his sister's still frame in the big, white bed, and back to the nurse.

She smiled at his acknowledgment of her description, and, feeling she was on firmer footing now, continued in a more confident tone, "They've visited her every day since … well, since you've been "away". They always bring vases overflowing with the most beautiful, white roses. They said you wouldn't want her to be alone … that you always loved for her to be surrounded by the smell of flowers."

Aya swallowed the lump that had lodged in his throat. He could feel the tears gathering in his eyes. He hated himself for it, but he couldn't stop. Suddenly, he had to get out of there. He was going to lose it, and he couldn't stand for this person … this stranger … to see him, no matter how kind she seemed.

He cleared his throat, and said, his voice shaking and almost inaudible, "I … uh … I need to … I need to go."

Without waiting for the nurse to reply, he shoved past the startled woman and fled into the hallway. He didn't stop running until he stumbled out of the front entrance of Magic Bus Hospital. He tumbled and tripped down the front steps to come to a stop at a nearby corner. There, he leaned against a lamp post, panting, out of breath, his body one mean, screaming ache and throb of pain, his eyes streaming tears that he couldn't stop, and his breath coming in choking, hitching sobs. His mind whirled, thoughts and questions running around and around, like dogs chasing their tails, as he struggled to come to grips with what he had just seen. Why? Why would they do that? They had done it for him. That much was clear, even to his emotionally overwrought subconscious, but why? They weren't his friends … were they?

It took Aya a long time to regain his composure. He would have preferred to move to a more secluded location, so no one could see his little emotional and mental meltdown, but he didn't have the strength. Instead, he remained on that street corner, leaning on the lamp post, head resting against the flaking blue paint, and tried hard to ignore the passersby --- almost all of whom slowed down and stared. When he finally managed to get his emotions under control, Aya flagged a cab and, as he slid into the back seat, gave the driver the address for the Koneko no Sumu Ie. Maybe it was time to go home, after all.


	12. Chapter 12

Ken jumped when he heard someone fumbling with the lock on the kitchen's back door. He paused in the middle of rinsing a plate, and stared in the direction of the sound. The water dripped off the sudsy dish and landed in the sink with soft, little plips as he wondered who it was. They were the only ones who used the back door, except for a few deliveries, or, maybe, his soccer kids or one of Yohji's "dates". He wasn't expecting anyone. Yohji and Omi had left an hour ago, intending to stop off at Magic Bus Hospital with flowers for Aya's sister, run a couple of errands, and then get to the hospital in time for visiting hours, so they could check up on Aya. Neither of them had said so, but Ken suspected they didn't like leaving the redhead alone. He hadn't been to see Aya, but his teammates had told him the swordsman was pretty messed up, physically and emotionally. Ken figured it stood to reason, considering everything the guy had been through. Yohji and Omi both thought Aya might do something stupid, if left too much to his own devices, and they had been spending most of their time at the hospital, keeping an eye on the quiet man. The ex-goalie had to admit he had mixed feelings about it. He hadn't seen very much of Omi. He missed his friend and resented the hell out of Aya for diverting the young blonde's attention so completely. But, on the other hand, they had kept the shop closed a lot, which meant less fan-girl face time … and that was always a good thing, in Ken's mind.

The rattling at the door stopped, and Ken shrugged. Must have just been the wind. He turned back to the task at hand and grimaced when he realized he'd barely made a dent in the pile in front of him. It looked like every damn dish they owned was stacked up here, and more. Ken grumbled under his breath as he put the plate he'd been holding into the drainer to dry. If he hadn't known better, he'd have thought Yohji or Omi had decided to supplement their income by taking in dishes to wash. He hated doing any kind of housework, but dishes had to be the worst. From the looks of it, he was going to be standing here for the rest of the century.

As he grabbed a glass from the counter and dunked it beneath the soapy water, Ken wondered if dish pan hands would hamper his effectiveness with the bugnuks. It might be worth a try, just to see if it would get him out of dish duty. Almost as soon as the thought occurred to him, he shrugged it off. Yohji and Omi would never believe it, although he thought Yohji would probably give him some credit for originality. He rinsed the glass, dumped it onto the drainer, where it clinked loudly against the plate, and automatically reached for another dish --- a coffee mug. He scowled as he thrust it beneath the water's soapy surface, and, as he remembered Yohji's parting words, he scrubbed savagely at the traitorous ceramic item, his fingers making squeaking noises when they slid over the smooth surface.

_"Look, if you're not going to help keep Aya company, then you can at least do some work around here. Do the dishes or something," _Yohji had said as he had exited the kitchen an hour ago with a jaunty hand wave that still pissed Ken off, smoke trailing behind him like a jet stream.

"Do the dishes or something," Ken grumbled under his breath in a whining, sarcastic, mocking tone as he rinsed the mug and tossed it toward the dish drainer, scattering soapy water droplets across the counter in the process. "Asshole," he muttered, reaching for another glass, which he dumped into the sink. It made a "plunk" as it sank beneath the water.

Much as he hated doing the dishes, and as much as he hated admitting Yohji was right --- ever --- the tall blonde did have a point. The place had become a pit since Aya's disappearance and extended absence. They had never been what you would call strictly neat, at least, not until Aya had joined the team. He and Yohji were died-in-the-wool slobs. Omi had tried, but the kid wasn't as aggressive about it as Aya. Omi had been content with keeping his own, personal, space neat and tidy, and had let Ken and Yohji, pretty much, have the run of the apartment's common living areas. But, after Aya had joined their team, that had changed.

The redhead was a neat freak. Ken figured it was just one more reason to hate the icy bastard. If he had been fair about it, he probably would have had to admit it was some kind of coping mechanism or something. Which was all the more reason to avoid being fair.

At any rate, Aya managed to ride herd over everyone enough to bully the common areas into a sort of ordered chaos approaching actual neatness. During the past few months, they had managed to backslide into their old, slobbish ways. Ken hated to admit it, but even he preferred Aya's ordered chaos, although not enough to clean up the place.

Over the past couple of days, though, Yohji had insisted everyone start putting the apartment back into some kind of order. The tall blonde was the last person he'd have expected to want things cleaned up and returned to an "Aya-like" state, but they had spent the last two days cleaning and reordering their little part of the universe, under Yohji's supervision --- as strange as that seemed. Ken was certain the older man's unusual actions must have caused some kind of time rip or something out in the universe. It was just too weird. He remembered an American sci-fi flick he had seen once --- one where these aliens took people and replaced them with duplicates they had grown in pods, and, now, he wondered if, maybe, he should start looking around for Yohji's pod.

There it was again. Ken stopped in mid-rinse and glared at the door. He was sure he had heard it this time. It couldn't have been the wind. He frowned and crossed the space from the sink to the door in three long strides, carrying the dripping glass with him. Holding it in his right hand, he, very slowly, very quietly, undid the lock. Then, with his left hand, he twisted the knob and yanked the door open.

Aya stumbled and half-fell into the kitchen. The redhead had been leaning against the door, trying to fumble his key into the lock with his left hand, and the sudden loss of support had taken him by surprise. Ken managed to catch him before he fell to the floor, but he dropped the glass in the process. The ex-goalie shoved Aya into a standing position and frowned in irritation at the tinkling sound of breaking glass. Now, he was going to have to get a broom to sweep this mess up. His first instinct was to leave it, and take it as a sign he wasn't supposed to be doing the dishes. But, he figured Yohji wouldn't buy it. He gave Aya a narrow-eyed glare of irritation as he leaned around the redhead to push the door closed. It swung shut with a loud bang, rattling the doorknob under the force of his shove.

"Um … sorry … about the glass," Aya muttered. He managed to regain his balance and shouldered past Ken to enter the kitchen, where he dropped in an exhausted heap into the nearest chair.

Ken's angry, smart-assed retort died on his lips as he turned and took his first good, long look at Aya. The redhead was more deathly pale than usual, and he was shaking and sweating. Ken knew Aya would never admit it, but he had a feeling the other man had taken up such a nonchalant position in the chair because he didn't have the strength to remain standing. No matter how much he happened to dislike Aya, Ken wasn't a cruel person at heart. He couldn't find it in himself to taunt or belittle someone who was in such bad shape.

Instead, he settled for visiting a withering, narrow-eyed, paint-peeling glare on the redhead as he opened the pantry and dug around for a broom and dustpan. Aya didn't seem to notice. The redhead remained slumped in his chair, staring at the table top in front of him, never bothering to look up or acknowledge his companion's actions.

How could he not know Ken was glaring at him? That could only mean he chose to ignore it, a fact that wasn't lost on the ex-goalie. Ken just knew Aya was doing it on purpose, and, as he swept the glass into the dustpan with jerky, angry motions, he found his irritation growing by the second. Hurt or not, he was going to have to put this asshole in his place. With that decided, he crossed two steps to the trash can, flipped open the lid and dropped the glass in with a decisive shake of the dustpan. It hit the bottom of the can with a slight tinkling sound, and he set the broom aside, leaning it against the counter, before whirling to face Aya, fully intending to give the redhead a piece of his mind.

"Thanks … for … for what you did," Aya muttered, before Ken managed to say anything. The redhead continued to stare at his left hand, which rested, palm-down, on the table in front of him. His voice was so quiet that, at first, Ken wasn't sure he'd even heard Aya say anything.

Ken was so surprised by Aya's statement the angry words died in his throat. He stared, openmouthed, at the older man for several seconds. The redhead sounded small and out of place, although it took the ex-goalie a little while to figure out why. Aya sounded embarrassed. That shocked the hell out of Ken. He couldn't ever remember Aya sounding like that. What the hell had gotten into the guy?

"Huh?" Ken finally managed to respond. He mentally rolled his eyes in disgust even as he said it. It had to be the snappiest comeback of all time --- not.

"For … her. For Aya … what you did for Aya. The flowers," Aya muttered. When he looked up from the table, Ken was surprised to see a slight blush discoloring his ashy complexion.

"Oh … um … well, I … I did it for Omi, really," Ken replied, almost automatically.

The ex-goalie regretted his choice of words almost immediately. Aya didn't give any overt signs, but Ken had been around the redhead long enough to recognize his words had stung. Aya flinched --- a small, almost imperceptible shrug of his left shoulder --- and returned his gaze to the table top in front of him. Ken hated himself for it, but he felt guilty at hurting Aya's feelings. He was surprised at that, too. Considering how he despised the redhead, he would have thought he'd count getting some kind of emotional reaction out of him as at least a minor victory. Instead, he just felt petty and stupid, having realized, too late, what it had cost Aya to say what he had said.

'You're welcome … would that have been so damn hard to say, Hidaka?' Ken thought as he turned back toward the sink of dirty dishes.

"You … don't like me very much, do you?"

Ken had just reached for a plate, and the sound of Aya's voice made him jump. The dish fell from his hand and sank beneath the water with a loud plunk, scattering soapy droplets across the counter and splashing the front of the ex-goalie's shirt. Ken's mouth twisted in a slight grimace as he grabbed a dish towel and wiped at his clothes, hoping the gesture would give him some time to come up with a suitable response to Aya's question.

After a couple of seconds, he realized the only thing he could do in this situation was tell the truth. Well, he could run away. He guessed he could probably make it to the door before Aya. After all, the guy looked like he was still in pretty bad shape. Ken shook his head slightly, forcing that idea from his mind. No, that was stupid. It was stupid to be afraid of telling the truth, especially when Aya had asked. He didn't know the redhead very well, but Aya gave him the distinct impression of someone who didn't ask a question unless he already knew the answer.

Ken sighed and turned around, leaning back against the sink, to face Aya. He still had the damn dish towel in his hands, and he tossed it aside irritably. "Um … uh, no. I guess … I guess you could say I don't."

He paused, watching Aya intently. A small, uncomfortable silence, heavy with the tension between the two men, hung in the air. Aya gazed steadily at Ken, unashamed, and, apparently, unmoved by the ex-goalie's candid admission. At any rate, Ken couldn't read any emotion in the redhead's face or eyes, which was nothing unusual. Still, he would have thought it would get some kind of reaction; any other person would have shown some emotion. Ken didn't know why, but Aya's steady gaze unnerved him, and, suddenly, he felt embarrassed about his uncharitable feelings toward the redhead and ashamed of the admission he had just made so easily. He looked away, breaking the staring stalemate between them, and glanced down at his foot. His face felt warm, and he was certain he was blushing. He hated himself for that.

"Um … sorry," Ken added, in an embarrassed, almost inaudible voice.

He looked up in time to see Aya give a clumsy, one-shouldered shrug. The redhead shook his head and looked back down at his hand, which still rested against the table top.

"It's all right," Aya said, his voice soft and, yet, steady. "You shouldn't be sorry or ashamed of how you feel."

Somehow, the redhead's words, instead of reassuring Ken, made the ex-goalie feel worse. Ken shifted his weight and cleared his throat. "I … I want to thank you, though … you know … for what you did. For what you did for Omi."

He cursed silently even as he heard the words tumble out of his mouth. He had wanted to make a generous gesture, to give the redhead something to lessen the blow his previous words must have had, but it came out sounding so lame. And, when Ken thought about it, he figured it was pointless, anyhow. He doubted Aya even cared whether or not anyone liked him, and he was sure the redhead hadn't been surprised by his little revelation.

Ken jumped, startled, when he heard Aya reply, "I would do it for any of you." Aya, once again, speared him with an unblinking, steady gaze. But, this time, a hint of emotion --- sincerity, maybe --- seemed to flicker through the blue-violet orbs. "Whatever else we are … however else we feel about each other … we are Weiss."

Ken was shocked. Something like that … well, it was the last thing he would have expected Aya to say. Maybe Yohji and Omi were right. Maybe he hadn't given the redhead enough of a chance. Maybe, given time, he could learn to respect Aya … maybe even accept him as part of Weiss … maybe even like him.

The silence seemed to grow and expand to fill the room. Ken felt like some sort of response was called for, but he couldn't think of anything to say. The ex-goalie was relieved almost beyond belief when the telephone jangled to life, splitting the heavy, tense quiet and rescuing him from the uncomfortable conversation. He gave Aya, who had returned to scrutinizing the table top, a final glance, and then crossed the kitchen to pick up the phone, which hung just behind the redhead's chair.

Ken listened for several seconds before replying, "Yeah, he's here." He hung up the phone and turned around. Aya had fallen asleep, slumped in his chair, his head resting on his left arm, which was draped across the table. Ken shook his head.

'Guess he was more worn out than I thought,' he mused, as he turned back toward the sink and his barely-diminishing stack of dirty dishes.

* * *

About twenty minutes later, the kitchen door slammed against the wall as Yohji banged through it, Omi right on his heels. The tall blonde burst through the door in an angry, half-panicked frenzy, shoulder-length hair escaping his low ponytail to flap about his face, ever-present dark glasses askew, unlit cigarette clenched between grimacing teeth. He paid no notice to the loud banging noise the door made, although it caused Ken to jump and come close to dropping the last dish. The ex-goalie finished rinsing the plate and carefully put it in the drying rack before turning to spear Yohji with a dirty look that came close to imitating one of Aya's death glares. He had just been congratulating himself on finishing all those damn dishes, and he would have been heartily pissed at Yohji if the older man's ruckus had caused him to break one. It was bad enough he had broken the glass earlier, when Aya had come home.

Omi followed at a more sedate pace. Ken could tell the younger blonde was upset, too. Omi's coloring was pale, his eyes held a frightened expression, and he was breathing heavily. It was obvious he had run up the stairs to the kitchen, just as Yohji had. Thankfully, Omi had the presence of mind to catch the door before the knob dented the wall. He pushed it closed behind him with a small click.

"Where the hell is he?" Yohji yelled, so frazzled and panicked he failed to notice the object of his search sitting at the table, less than a foot in front of him. "When I catch up to him, I swear I'm gonna …"

The tall blonde's voice trailed off when Ken nodded toward the table. Aya was still there and still asleep, despite the noisy commotion that had heralded Yohji's entrance. Omi leaned around the tall blonde, who had stopped only a short distance into the kitchen, more or less in the doorway, and was blocking his view of the rest of the room, to take a look. He sighed and seemed relieved to see Aya there.

"Oh," Yohji said, his voice resuming a more normal tone. He straightened his sunglasses and gave Ken a sheepish smile as he chuckled and refastened his ponytail, all his anger and bluster gone, now that he saw Aya sitting there, safe and sound, in their kitchen. The tall blonde cleared his throat, trying to recover from the embarrassment of looking so frazzled, and said, turning his head to give Omi a reassuring smile, "It's all right. He's here. Right here. Safe and sound. No worries."

Omi hissed in irritation and muttered "Why are you such a fucking idiot?" as he shoved past Yohji to pull out the chair nearest Aya. It slid across the floor with the screech of old wood against older linoleum, and that sound, cousin to the earsplitting scream of fingernails against a blackboard, succeeded where all Yohji's banging and shouting had failed. Aya awoke with a start, terror plainly written across his face and in his eyes. He sat up so quickly he hissed and grimaced in pain at the sudden, jerky movement, which tugged at stitches and forced aching, broken bones and sore muscles into immediate action. Omi dropped into the chair he'd claimed and laid a hand against Aya's arm, in an effort to reassure and comfort the startled man.

Ken was surprised. He couldn't remember Aya ever looking so terrified, and the ex-goalie couldn't help but wonder what had gone through the swordsman's mind to scare him like that. Considering what Aya had been through, it shouldn't have been such a surprise, and Ken couldn't help but feel a little ashamed at never considering the impact the past few months' events might have had on the redhead. Part of the reason was because Aya always seemed so in control --- a tightly-wound badass who wasn't afraid of anything or anyone. But, Ken had to admit, much as it shamed him, it was mostly because he hadn't ever thought of Aya as being human. He realized now, for the first time, that he really hadn't been fair to the redhead. He'd never given Aya a fair shake or much of a chance to prove he was other than what Ken believed him to be.

"It's all right, Aya," Omi said, leaning forward to give the redhead a reassuring smile, "It's just me … And Yohji."

The kid's low, reassuring voice brought Ken's attention back from his thoughts, and he glanced toward the table to watch Omi give Aya's arm a gentle squeeze, a comforting gesture the ex-goalie was certain Aya would shrug off. But, the redhead made no move to escape the reassuring human contact, and Ken found himself surprised into shame for about the hundredth time that morning. The ex-goalie frowned in irritation. This was turning out to be a very crappy day. Ken hated having to rethink things he'd thought settled, and he especially hated it when his view of the world was challenged and proven false. So far, both those things were happening in spades today, and it made the ex-goalie want to retreat to his room and hide in bed with the covers pulled up over his head. Not for forever or anything … that would just be silly and childish … but, maybe just for a few days, until Aya was more healed up or stronger, and the world was back to what passed for normal in Weiss's house.

Yohji had held his peace for as long as he could. Having lost all patience with this whole mess, he hissed in irritation and stepped forward to grab Omi's collar. He tugged, none too gently, and, ignoring the kid's squeaked protests of "Yohji!!", lifted Omi out of the chair. He scooched the boy around its back, using his hold on Omi's collar to steer. Once the younger blonde was out of the way, Yohji turned the chair around, so its back was facing Aya, and draped his long, lanky frame onto the seat, resting his arms along the top rung of the back. He removed his sunglasses and leaned forward, until he was almost nose-to-nose with the startled redhead. Aya stared at him, unblinking, yet unable to hide the expression of surprise in his wide, blue-violet eyes. Yohji glared at the younger man for a long few moments, a half-smirk, half-frown on his face.

Finally, he tapped Aya lightly on the forehead with his index finger, and snarled, "What the hell are you doing here?"

Ken and Omi both started forward, ready to separate the two men if this argument, like so many of their others, became physical. But, Aya was either too surprised or too exhausted to argue with Yohji.

After a tense couple of seconds, he swatted clumsily at the older man's finger with his left hand, and muttered, "I … took a cab."

Yohji leaned back and stared at Aya, but with a confused expression this time. "You took a …" he muttered, shaking his head. "What the hell are you …"

"From the hospital," Aya replied, cutting Yohji off in mid-question. "I took a cab from the hospital."

Yohji sighed and gave the ceiling a "why me?" look as he silently counted to ten and prayed for patience. "Did it not occur to you that, maybe, people were out looking for you? Running around like maniacs, not knowing where you wandered off to, all beat up to hell … that someone might be worrying sick over you?"

Aya's only response was a halfhearted left shoulder shrug.

Yohji sighed again, but, before he could say anything, Omi stepped forward and laid a hand on Aya's shoulder, drawing the redhead's attention toward him. "Your doctor told us you left against his advice. Aya, you're really not ready to be back home yet. I mean … look at you … you're a mess. We were worried sick. We've been all over the city looking for you."

"I'm not going back," Aya said, his tone soft, yet, resolute. He had made up his mind, and no one was going to sway him.

Omi sighed. He knew better than to argue.

Yohji, however, always the careless, carefree one of their little troupe, jumped in with both feet where even angels would fear to tread. "Aya …" he started, his tone similar to the gently scolding voice one would use for an extremely stubborn child.

Aya shook his head. "No. I'm not going back."

Yohji rubbed his hand over his face and sighed heavily. He knew that tone of voice. Aya had made up his mind, and there would be no changing it. Arguing would be a pointless waste of time.

He sighed again before saying, "All right, but you can't stay here in this kitchen. You're done in." When Aya started to protest, Yohji cut him off with a wave of his hand, "Don't bother arguing with me." He shoved his sunglasses back onto his face and stood, grabbing Aya's left arm and tugging the redhead to his feet. Aya swayed a bit, but Yohji steadied him, pointed him toward the living room and gave him a gentle shove. "Go on," he growled, trying to sound angry and gruff, but failing miserably, due to the goofy grin plastered on his face, "You can sleep on the sofa. I'll stay and watch a movie. I'll even leave the light on … I promise." Yohji chuckled when Aya hissed in irritation and told him to fuck off.

Omi laughed at his teammates' antics. Aya tried hard to act pissed off, but he knew enough about the redhead to know he would be happy to have Yohji's company --- at least for now. Omi had to admit he was relieved to have Aya back home. The younger blonde suspected Yohji had guessed Aya might do this, despite the older man's freak out over the swordsman's disappearance and Yohji's obvious, unfeigned mixture of relief and anger at finally finding him.

After all, Yohji had told them, a few days ago, to start cleaning up around the place. The chain-smoking ladies' man was not a person who cared about things being in their places. He wouldn't have done that unless he suspected Aya would mutiny and break out of the hospital to return home. Omi was also relieved to have Yohji take charge of the stubborn swordsman. He still felt guilty over what had happened to Aya. No matter how much the redhead denied it, Omi guessed he would always feel it was his fault. He couldn't help it; that was just the way he was made. But, he was enough of a realist to admit when he was licked. And, all guilt aside, the young blonde had had just about all he could take of Aya's stubborn, grouchy neediness while the redhead was in the hospital.

'Besides,' Omi thought, staring at Ken's back, 'Aya's not the only stubborn asshole around here. He's Yohji's responsibility … Ken's mine. That's the way it works best, and that's the way it should be.'

Ken had returned to the sink and, with a disgusted sigh and irritated shake of his head, started in on drying the heap of just-washed dishes. Every so often, the brunette would slap a dish down onto the counter with a loud clunk and mutter something under his breath with an angry shake of his head. Omi couldn't help smiling. The ex-goalie was pretty transparent. He knew Ken wouldn't admit it, but the brunette had been jealous of all the attention Aya had been getting from the rest of the team, and, in particular, from him.

Omi approached from behind, and, when he was standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the ex-goalie, reached around in front of Ken to snag one of the dish towels lying on the counter. Ken jumped, startled at his friend's sudden, silent appearance. He gave the boy a sheepish grin, embarrassed at having been so lost in thought that he hadn't noticed the young blonde's approach. Omi smiled back, and, without another word, reached for the top plate on the nearest stack. Even with both of them working at it, it would take some time before everything was dry and put away.

They dried in silence for several minutes. Finally, Ken asked, half under his breath and in a sullen tone, "Don't you wanna go help out with Aya?"

Omi didn't meet the brunette's eyes. If he looked at Ken, he knew he would laugh, and that would just make the older man angrier. He couldn't help it. The ex-goalie was sulking like a three-year-old, and, for some reason, it struck Omi as funny.

Keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the dish he was polishing to a dull sheen, Omi replied, just as quietly, but without any hint of emotion or recrimination, "Nah. Thought I'd best stay here and help you. You know … make sure you get the job done right."

He glanced sideways at Ken and smiled when he saw the faintest ghost of a grin cross the brunette's face. "Besides," he continued, "Yohji can more than handle things on that end. Thank goodness. I think Aya had just about jumped on my last nerve."

Ken glanced over at Omi, to find the boy gazing calmly at him, kindness and friendship radiating from his almost-innocent blue eyes. Suddenly, the ex-goalie felt very small and very stupid, indeed, for having been so jealous of Aya, and for having been so angry with the injured man. But, he knew Omi would never mention his shortcoming in this matter. He could trust the younger blonde to allow him to back away from those feelings gracefully and with some measure of self-respect, and never to bring it up again; Omi was good about stuff like that.

Ken shrugged and said nothing. The occasional clink of ceramic against ceramic, as they removed a dish from the drainer or added one to the dry stack, was the only thing that broke the peaceful, companionable silence. They worked like that for several minutes, each man happy to be in the other's company and content to let the peaceful quiet, something all too rare in their lives, fold around them like a mother's arms.

After a little while, Omi sighed, and commented, in an almost absent tone, "It's nice, don't you think?" He glanced up to find Ken giving him a questioning look, and he replied, "You know … to have everyone home, to have everything back to normal."

Ken thought about this for a few moments, mulling it over as he dried, first, a coffee mug and, then, a small plate. He was surprised to find Omi was right. With Aya's disappearance, a tense, ugly, pallor had fallen over the Koneko --- the kind of atmosphere he'd felt at funerals or in the houses of people who had lost a family member. But now, the air felt … well, more "normal", easier to breathe, or something. Ken didn't understand it, but there was a definite feeling of relief in the air now that Aya was back. He hated to admit it, but even he was relieved --- not so much for the redhead's safe return, but for getting his best friend and his surrogate big brother back the way he liked them.

Ken shook his head, remembering Aya's earlier words, 'Whatever else we are … however else we feel about each other … we are Weiss. Guess that asshole was right about that, after all, damn him,' Ken thought.

But, he smiled, and out loud, said, "Yeah … it **_is_** nice."

* * *

Yohi watched, a slight frown twisting his handsome face, as Aya picked his way across the items still scattered on the living room floor. The redhead was off-balance, and came close to falling twice before he managed to reach the sofa. Yohji had to force himself to stay put, just in the doorway, and watch as Aya struggled to negotiate the cluttered room and reach his destination. He wanted to stick to the younger man like glue, wanted to be there to catch him at each stumble, but he didn't think Aya would accept his assistance. No, he **_knew_** Aya wouldn't want that. Aya was stubborn and independent to a fault, even if he did look like he could barely stay on his feet. So, Yohji sucked down his mother-bear, overprotective streak, and slouched against one side of the doorjamb, managing to look casual and nonchalant, even though he held his breath and winced each time Aya stumbled. When the younger man finally reached the sofa and dropped onto it, Yohji couldn't help but breathe a soft sigh of relief. It had to have been the longest minute or two in his whole, damn life.

Yohji watched as Aya settled on the sofa, squirming and shoving pillows aside until he had managed to make a comfortable nest. Aya moved like an old man, like his body was made of brittle, old glass and would break at the slightest misstep. Considering what the redhead had been through, Yohji figured that wasn't too far from the truth. He couldn't believe Aya had lived through it all. Still, this wasn't the Aya he knew, and Yohji hated seeing his friend this way. It brought back thoughts of finding the redhead's bloody, mangled body in that damn coffin --- painful flashes of memory that still, even after the passage of four months, brought tears to his eyes. The tall blonde knew he'd be more than happy once Aya had healed up enough to be his surly, irritating self, and things were back to normal.

As he waited, giving Aya time to get comfortable without the added burden of another warm body jostling against him, Yohji fumbled in his back pocket for his cigarettes. He had shaken one of the sticks from the pack and was already holding the lighter up to it, when he thought better of his actions. He really needed a cigarette, needed the surge of nicotine through his body so he'd have the strength to deal with all those nightmares of memory --- his and Aya's. The redhead hadn't said anything, and, knowing him, Yohji wondered if he ever would, but the tall blonde knew Aya was suffering, emotionally, as well as physically, from what had happened to him. A guy didn't get tortured to within an inch of his life and then buried alive without some kind of residual effects, and Yohji knew Aya needed him right now --- even if the younger man would never admit it. The redhead needed the comfort and security that came from feeling someone he trusted was near, and Yohji knew it was his responsibility to steer Aya through this latest nightmare in their lives.

The tall blonde shrugged as he turned these thoughts over in his mind. He didn't mind being there for Aya --- was glad to be able to give his friend even the smallest measure of comfort, especially after they had come so close to losing the quiet swordsman. If push came to shove, Aya would do the same for him; Aya had done the same for him, even though he knew the redhead didn't realize it. No, it wasn't his role as Aya's self-appointed tour guide back to the realm of what passed for sanity in Weiss's twisted world that kept Yohji lingering in the doorway, jonesing for a cigarette so badly his fingers twitched with the desire to light up. It was his own memories --- the fear and panic at finding Aya had disappeared, a feeling he had relived all-too-vividly just this morning upon finding the redhead gone from the hospital; the despair at recovering Omi, only to find Aya was still missing; the haunting vision of the redhead's battered body in that coffin. No … a guy didn't live through all of that without needing a cigarette. Still, considering everything Aya had been through, Yohji figured the redhead was due a bit of deference. So, he shoved the cigarette into its box and slid the pack and his lighter back into his pocket with a soft sigh of regret before making his way across the living room to the sofa.

The tall blonde paused as he approached the farthest end of the sofa from where Aya sat. He watched his friend for a few silent moments. The redhead didn't seem to realize Yohji was there. He stared ahead, into nothing, with a vacant, almost lost expression that was so uncharacteristic it twisted the tall blonde's stomach into knots and wrenched at his heart. Yohji couldn't help but wonder if they'd ever get the "real" Aya, the Aya they were used to, back. The tall blonde wasn't sure, after all that had happened to him, if the younger man could make a comeback, and Yohji was afraid this lost-looking, silently needy, emotionally traumatized stranger had come home to stay. This person was a hollow shell of the stubborn, quiet man the oldest Weiss had come to recognize as his closest friend. But, if it came down to it, Yohji figured a shell of Aya was better than no Aya at all. If this was the way things were going to be, he would learn to live with it and like it.

Suddenly, Aya's mouth twisted into a half-frown and his eyes narrowed in an irritated expression that was so, well, "Aya-like" that Yohji felt his heart leap with hope. For a fraction of a second, a heartbeat, maybe two, it was as if he had been looking at the "old" Aya, the Aya he had known before all this crap had happened. Then, the expression was gone, replaced by the lost, abandoned, haunted look that tore at Yohji's heart. But, it had been enough to give the tall blonde hope. Aya wasn't lost … just hibernating for a while.

Yohji followed the younger man's gaze in response to the fleeting expression of irritation, and realized the redhead wasn't staring into nothing. Aya was looking at the new television, which hung on the wall across from him --- forty-two inches of flat-screen, plasma goodness that had, apparently, been enough of a surprise to shock the "old" Aya into making a fleeting appearance.

Yohji couldn't help but grin as he dropped onto the sofa next to his friend, lanky legs coming to rest on the coffee table, long arms draped over the couch's back.

"New?" Aya asked, still staring at the television.

Yohji shrugged. "Yeah," he replied, as he turned aside with a grunt to dig through the cushions in search of the remote. "It was kind of a present, courtesy of Roland Harrister's overstuffed bank account and pristine credit report."

Yohji glanced sideways as he clicked the television on and surfed through one channel after another. He hadn't been sure how Aya would take to having a reminder of his tormentor staring at him, day after day. The redhead tensed slightly at the mention of Harrister's name, but, other than that, he gave no indication he'd even heard what Yohji had said.

"I'll get rid of it, if you want," Yohji said.

Aya snorted, a sound caught between laughter and derision, and shook his head. "Don't," he said, reaching across Yohji's stomach to take the remote from the tall blonde's hand. He flipped through several channels before finding a movie to his liking --- some American flick suitably packed with enough car chases and exploding buildings to make it entertaining. "It's nice … good picture," he continued, tossing the remote into Yohji's lap.

The tall blonde smiled.

They sat like that for several minutes, each man enjoying the other's company and the comfortable, easy silence that had fallen between them. Yohji glanced over at his friend, taking in Aya's ashy-white complexion, the rigid posture, the exhausted, haunted look in his eyes. It was too soon for the redhead to be out of the hospital, and, if he had had any sense, he would have grabbed Aya by the collar and forcibly dragged the younger man's ass right back there. Still, the tall blonde couldn't help but feel relieved and happy that Aya was home. It didn't show a lot of good sense, but it was the way things were. He didn't want Aya in that hospital any more than the redhead wanted to be there, so Yohji was content to let things ride, just as they were. It was enough to be able to sit here and enjoy the company of this quiet friend he had come so close to losing, and, the tall blonde figured, it was more than time for things to get back to normal around here.

"You know," Yohji finally said, his overprotective streak winning out over his selfish desire to enjoy Aya's company, "You really shouldn't be down here like this. If you're not going back to the hospital, you should at least be upstairs, in bed."

"I'm fine," Aya replied, never taking his eyes from the movie.

Yohji sighed. "You're not fine, Aya. You look like shit. It's bad enough you left the hospital like you did … but, you're overdoing it. You're no superman, you know."

Aya snorted again, that same half-derisive, half-laughing, humorless sound. "Believe me, I'm well aware of my status as a mere mortal," he replied. He turned to look at Yohji, and said, his expression coming so close to pleading that it wrenched the older man's heart, "I … I don't want to be alone … in the quiet and the dark. I'll just wake up and think …" His voice trailed off, and he turned back toward the movie with a soft sigh of frustration.

Yohji frowned. He knew what Aya was going to say, but, more than anything, he knew the redhead needed to say it. He didn't know how, but, instinctively, he realized the younger man had to voice his fears out loud, if they were to have any hope of getting the "old" Aya back. The redhead had to face the nightmares this mission had generated, and saying them out loud was the first step toward conquering them.

"Think what?" Yohji prodded, his tone gentle.

Aya sighed again. "I'm back in that … coffin," he answered, his voice so soft Yohji had to strain to hear it.

If the older man was surprised at the confession, he didn't show it, and, for that, Aya was grateful. It had been hard for him to admit his weakness, not only to confront his fear, but admit it out loud. Instinctively, Yohji seemed to know that, just as he automatically understood so many other things where Aya was concerned.

Yohji shrugged in response. "Then we'll just stay here, if that's OK," he said, keeping his attention riveted on the movie. He could hear the embarrassment in the younger man's voice, and he didn't want to compound Aya's discomfort by staring at him. The tall blonde knew he had chosen correctly when he heard a soft sigh from his quiet companion. He could feel the relief practically radiating from the younger man, as if all the tension had melted away.

After another few silent minutes, Yohji squirmed around, careful not to jostle Aya, and fumbled in his front pocket. He pulled out a small, gold object and handed it to the younger man, who had turned to watch him with a questioning, albeit slightly irritated, look.

"Here," Yohji said. "Got something of yours."

Aya looked down at the tiny object Yohji had shoved into his hand. It was his earring. He had awakened in the hospital and immediately known it was gone, although he hadn't been able to remember losing it. He hadn't expected ever to see it again, and, as his thumb caressed the dangling bar's soft, worn metal, he felt tears gathering in his eyes. He fought them back. He had already shown so much weakness in front of Yohji; he couldn't bear for the older man to see him cry, too.

But, he wasn't able to hide the slight hitch to his voice as he said, "Thanks. I thought … it was gone. But, how?"

"Harrister," Yohji said, cutting Aya's question off. He spat the name out like it left a bad taste in his mouth. "Asshole took it. I took it back."

Yohji kept his attention glued to the television. He didn't care about the damn movie, and, in fact, had to fight the urge to look over at his friend. Yohji didn't know the whole significance behind the earring. He knew it was important to Aya, and that was all that mattered to him. He figured the redhead would tell him what the piece of jewelry meant, in his own time, when he was ready, but, for now, the tall blonde knew Aya needed a small bit of privacy to bring his emotions under control. So, instead of giving in to the urge to comfort his friend, he kept his attention carefully riveted on the television in front of him.

"Th … thanks, Yohji," Aya said.

His voice was soft, the words almost inaudible, but Yohji heard a tremble of emotion in there, slight, but enough to bring his attention from the TV toward his friend. He twisted slightly to the side to see Aya caressing the worn metal with his thumb as he turned the earring over on his palm. The tall blonde wasn't surprised to see hints of moisture glittering in the redhead's eyes. He knew Aya was fighting for all he was worth, struggling to hold back those tears.

"If … if something ever happens to me," Aya said, his voice hesitant, as if he was searching for just the right wording to express something they both knew should remain unspoken. "If … one time … I don't come back … you … you'd take care of her, right?"

Yohji struggled to choke back the lump that leapt up in his throat. He fought to ignore the painful wrench of his heart and to keep the tears from springing into his eyes. Fought --- and lost. It was all too new, too painful. Aya had almost died. By all rights, the redhead should be dead, and Yohji couldn't escape that fact. He had thought he had it under control, but Aya's soft words, the earnest tone in the redhead's voice, the burning need he heard behind the question brought it all hammering back home.

The tall blonde shoved his sunglasses up a bit to swipe at the tears gathered in his eyes as he replied, his tone gruff in an effort to hide the telltale tremble in his voice, "Shit, Aya. Don't … don't say that. I … I don't want to talk about that. Nothing's gonna happen to you. I won't let it."

Aya shook his head and replied, "You can't know what'll happen, Yohji. You might not be there, and, even if you are, you can't always protect me."

Yohji had been torturing himself over what had happened to Aya, had been beating himself up over not being there to protect the swordsman ever since that first night, when Manx's phone call had alerted him to Aya and Omi's disappearance. Aya's words weren't an accusation. There wasn't even the slightest hint of recrimination in the redhead's tone, but, even so, that was what Yohji's mind, guilty all these months over the thought he had let this happen to his friend, heard.

"I'm … sorry, Aya," the tall blonde managed to choke out, struggling to keep his voice even, but, even so, unable to hide the hitch at the end of his words. He paused, and, after gaining some control over his emotions, continued, "I'm so fucking sorry I wasn't there. I … I let this happen to you. You almost died … that fucking asshole almost killed you, and it was my fault. All my fault. If … if I had been there…"

"Then three of us would have been taken," Aya replied, his voice flat and expressionless. But, his eyes held forgiveness, fear, and sorrow --- fear for Yohji's sanity and sorrow for the way the tall blonde had suffered. "It wasn't your fault, Yohji. No one was to blame … except Roland Harrister. I didn't … mean to make you think I blamed you for what happened. I don't … but, I just … I need to know. I need to know, if something happens to me, that she'll be safe … that someone will look after her … that someone will love her."

Yohji stared at Aya for a few moments. He couldn't trust his voice to speak, so he just stared, jade green meeting blue-violet for the briefest span of time, until, impulsively, the tall blonde reached for his friend and pulled Aya to him, enfolding the redhead in a protective embrace. The remote clattered to the ground with a plastic rattle that made Aya jump a bit, but, to Yohji's surprise, the swordsman didn't struggle against the intimate contact. Instead, Aya let the older man pull him close, and settled his body comfortably against the tall blonde's.

Yohji released the redhead, the gesture of companionable friendship over almost before it had begun. But, Aya didn't move away. He remained, sitting close to Yohji, his side pressed against the older man's, feeling safe and secure in the feel of the tall blonde's warmth against him and the odor of stale cigarettes, stale booze, and hints of perfume --- Yohji's unique smell --- that folded around him like a protective shield. Yohji smiled and ruffled Aya's hair, chuckling when the gesture earned him an irritated hiss from the younger man.

"Yeah, junior," the tall blonde finally said, once he could trust himself to speak, once he was sure his voice wouldn't shake with emotion, "Of course I will. You know I will. I'd never let her be alone."


	13. Epilogue

Aya stopped at the top of the stairs and listened to the voices that floated up to him. Although he couldn't tell what they were saying, it sounded like everyone else was in the kitchen. The redhead took a deep breath, steeling his resolve for the fight he knew was coming. It had been a little over a month now, since he had come home, and he had decided it was time to resume training. He was out of shape, and he had to get back to mission-ready status as quickly as possible. So far, Kritiker had gone pretty easy on the team. Manx had said it was because of his injuries, but Aya suspected it had more to do with the fact she had forced Weiss into that last mission, despite his protests the team wasn't ready. Whatever the reason, he was grateful for the respite. The last thing he wanted was to become a liability to the rest of them. The thought of having to stay at home while the other three went out and risked their lives made him sick.

Aya believed he could keep the others safe just by being there. Stupid … irrational … but, all the same, it was how he felt. He knew Kritiker's patience was growing thin. The organization never had liked keeping its best team out of the field for long, and he had to be ready when Kritiker's patience finally broke. There was no way his team was going out without him. They were his responsibility, after all.

Unfortunately, Yohji and Omi hadn't been on board with his getting-back-into-shape plan. Yohji, in particular, had been a singular pain in the ass. He could bully Omi into giving him his way, but not Yohji. So far, the blonde had stymied all Aya's efforts to resume training. So, today, the redhead had decided he was going to have it out with Yohji, once and for all. He was going to get the tall blonde to spar with him, figuring it was the only way he could convince Yohji he was ready to get back into shape. Plus, he hated to admit it, but he'd grown used to the idiot's company. He and Yohji had sparred in the past, but not that often. Their fighting styles were too different, but, right now, a dual practice session seemed like an enjoyable way to get back into the swing of things.

He tightened his grip on the sheathed sword, which he carried in his right hand, grimacing with the effort. Much as he hated it, Aya had to admit Yohji was probably right. He didn't feel ready for the punishing rigor of training, but, he didn't have any other choice. Time was running out for Weiss, and he had to be ready to go when the rest of his team needed him. So, he would have to hide the way he really felt, suck it up, and get on with things. He figured it shouldn't be too difficult. After all, he was good at hiding stuff. But, he couldn't hide much from Yohji, which was part of the problem. He just had to hope the tall blonde would understand enough to get over his protective streak.

Aya squared his shoulders and gathered his resolve. Once he felt mentally prepared, he continued down the stairs, his bare feet skillfully avoiding the squeaky spots in the old wood. He didn't have a plan of action, but he figured it couldn't be too hard to goad Yohji into a sparring match. After all, he knew Yohji as well as the tall blonde knew him, so he knew just what buttons to push in order to get his way.

Fifteen steps brought him to the bottom of the staircase. He stood there for a few minutes, staring at his reflection in the TV, which, for once, was turned off, and debating over how he should approach things in the kitchen.

'Fuck it,' he thought, shrugging his shoulders in a gesture that caused him to wince in pain as bright-colored flashes of light danced in front of his eyes and dark spots clouded his vision. He gripped the banister and told himself he couldn't pass out here. If Yohji came out to find him passed out at the foot of the stairs, the blonde idiot would never agree to spar with him.

'I'll just have to talk him into it. If that doesn't work, I'll throw something at the asshole,' Aya thought, once the dizziness had passed and he could see clearly again. With his mind made up, the redhead stalked toward the kitchen, determination written in his steely blue-violet eyes and the grim set of his expression.

Twenty-nine steps brought him across the living room to stand in the kitchen door, watching the oddly-familial scene playing out in front of him. Something was cooking on the stove --- Omi's miso soup, judging from the savory smell, which made his mouth water. Aya couldn't help but think that Omi was an odd duck. He seemed cheerful and innocent, even though he had been raised as an assassin. To look at him, you'd never guess he'd been killing people practically his whole life. With anyone else, it would have been unnerving, but, with Omi, it wasn't … and the kid could make some damn good miso. Aya knew the young blonde had been making the soup a lot lately for his sake, having found out it was one of his favorite dishes, but he damn sure wasn't going to complain about it.

Omi sat at the table, facing the doorway, a book spread out before him. He was so engrossed in his reading material he failed to notice Aya's presence. The swordsman craned forward a little bit and stood on tiptoe, just enough to glimpse glossy pictures and what looked like paragraph after paragraph of descriptive writing. He rocked back into his previous position with a slight grimace. Every so often, Omi would decide they needed to do something "fun" together, planning and then dragging them off to one touristy outing after another. It looked like the kid had his "tour guide" hat on once again, which meant they were in for a day of enforced fun in the very near future. Yohji and Ken were behind and off to one side of the young blonde, near the outside door. They stood on either side of the right-hand door jamb, staring at the space between them and conversing in serious tones about something on the wall.

"Why don't you just kill it? You're a man, aren't you, Ken-Ken?" Yohji asked, leaning forward to poke at a dark spot on the wall. He jumped back, pulling his index finger away as if it had been scalded, when the spot started to move.

"Shit!" Ken hissed, jumping back, as well. "Stop poking the damn thing. And, why do I have to kill it? You're a man too, at least, according to all those dates you keep bringing home. You kill the damn thing."

Aya squinted at the dark spot until it materialized into the shape of a spider. It wasn't the smallest spider he'd ever seen, but not the largest, either. He figured it was about half the size of the palm of his hand. It was hairy, though … and creepy-looking. He couldn't help but feel a little relieved he wasn't standing near it.

"That, my little friend, is different," Yohji said. He straightened up and leaned back from the wall long enough to light a cigarette. Once his stick was ablaze, he leaned forward again to peer at the spider over the rims of his sunglasses. "I'm a lover, not a fighter. And, definitely not a killer of anything with more than two legs," he said, with an air of finality, blowing a steady stream of smoke onto the arachnid as he spoke.

The spider bounced in response and skittered a little further up the wall, prompting both Yohji and Ken to jump back at its sudden, jerky movement.

"Little bastard!" Ken hissed. It wasn't clear whether he was referring to the spider or to Yohji, who just shrugged and offered a crooked grin in response. Ken gave the tall blonde a narrow-eyed glare full of hatred and snarled, "Quit irritating the fucking thing like that, I said!"

"Look," Yohji replied, his tone taking on an air of reason, as if he was the only sane person amid an asylum full of loons. He leaned forward to inspect the spider once it stopped moving, "If you just kill it, you won't have to worry about it moving around any more. If you leave it, it'll just show up later in your bed … or in your shoe … or the shower, when you're in there naked."

"Stop it!" Ken yelped. The brunette shuddered at the thoughts Yohji's words had conjured. "How the hell am I supposed to kill it, anyhow?" he asked, following the older man's example and leaning forward to stare at the arachnid once more.

Yohji shrugged and blew a second stream of smoke onto the irritated creature. This time, the spider didn't bother trying to skitter further up the wall. Instead, it hunkered down and waited for the smog to lift from its tiny part of the universe.

"I dunno," Yohji said, giving another nonchalant shrug for emphasis, "The usual way. Squash it."

Ken cocked his head to one side and sighed in irritation, spearing Yohji with a sneering, mocking expression. "With what, might I ask? The thing's fucking huge, for crying out loud!"

"Your shoe," Yohji replied, obviously proud to have come up with a solution to their dilemma. The tall blonde hated making decisions, yet he seemed to love being the "answer man". It was an odd dichotomy none of his teammates understood.

Ken reached over, careful to do so slowly for fear of setting the spider moving up the wall again, and knocked his fist against Yohji's head. "Hello!?" he sneered, "I'm barefoot here, in case you didn't notice." He added, just under his breath, "Fucking moron."

"It's not that big," Yohji replied, cocking his head to the side and, once again, stabbing an exploratory index finger in the spider's direction. He withdrew it when the creature hissed at him. "Hardly worth mentioning, really," he said, in an effort to cover up his hasty retreat. "Use something else, then. Um … a spoon … or … a ladle ... or a plate … or …"

"You're **_not_** using any kitchen utensils, dishes, or eating implements to kill that spider," Omi ordered, without looking up from his book. The vision of shattering plates had been enough to draw his attention, briefly, from his duties as Weiss's self-appointed tour guide.

Yohji sighed, irritated at this new turn of events. It was becoming more and more obvious by the second that this spider-killing thing was not going to be a simple matter. "Fine," he said, never turning his attention from the angry arachnid skulking on the wall in front of him, "Use a paper towel, then."

"A paper towel!" Ken squeaked, his voice shooting up an octave or two. Both Yohji and Omi winced at the sound. "A paper towel! It's fucking huge. It's as big as my head … and you say use a paper towel?! What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Only dogs can hear you now, Ken," Yohji smirked, wiggling his finger in his ear. "I never knew a grown man's voice could go that damn high."

Ken growled in irritation. Omi laughed. He tried hard not to, as he knew it would only make Ken angrier, and, thus, worsen the situation, but he couldn't help it. It had been damn funny. The younger blonde tried hard to stifle it by clamping his hand over his mouth, but his snicker reached Ken's ears, prompting the ex-goalie to turn a withering glance on the youngest assassin. He could only spare a second to glare at the back of Omi's head, though, as he had to reserve all his attention for the malevolent critter lurking on the wall a few inches away from him.

"Look," Yohji said, again, the voice of reason, "It's simple. You wait here and watch the spider. I'll go find a shoe and bring it back here for you to kill it." He blew another smoke stream at the object of their discussion, jerking backward when it raised a leg in protest.

"Me wait here with it?" Ken squeaked, his voice once again ratcheting off the upper octaves. "Why the hell can't I go get the shoe while you wait here and watch it?"

Yohji shrugged. "Because it's your spider," he replied, as if it made perfect sense.

"IT IS NOT MY SPIDER!" Ken yelled.

He managed to spray the spider with spit in the process, something that irritated it only slightly less than Yohji's smoke. It hissed and raised a second defensive leg, which, actually, made it look a lot larger and a lot more threatening. The two assassins backed away a bit, giving their arachnid foe a little more breathing room.

"Now, you've made it really mad," Yohji whispered, eyeing the spider warily. "You're gonna have to kill it now. It's kill or be killed, Ken-Ken --- you or him, just like any other mission. You let him walk away, and he's gonna show up in your underwear drawer, for sure."

"Why my drawer?" Ken snapped. "And, I made it mad? What about you? You were the one blowing smoke all over it!"

"Yeah, but you spit on it," Yohji replied.

"And don't call me Ken-Ken," the brunette snapped, in almost the same breath. "I fucking hate that damn nickname!"

Yohji shrugged, "I know … that's why I do it."

Ken rolled his eyes and threw his head back to look at the ceiling in a classic "why the hell me" gesture. Why did he have to be saddled with this fucking lunatic moron for a teammate and housemate? Wasn't it bad enough to have to live with a sociopathic neat-freak and an overly cheerful, psychotic tour guide wannabe? Oh, and don't forget the biggest fucking spider to ever walk the earth. When was it going to be enough? When was Fate going to decide she had dumped enough shit on Ken Hidaka's head?

'Clearly, not today,' Ken thought as Yohji's voice cut through the brief silence.

"So?" the older man prompted, giving Ken a one eyebrow raised look over the rims of his sunglasses, "You gonna kill it or what?"

"You kill it," Ken retorted.

"No, you," Yohji answered.

"No, you," Ken snapped.

"No, you … no backs!" Yohji yelled, a look of sheer triumph on his face.

"Oh, for crying out loud!" Omi snapped, twisting around to face his two teammates. "What are you … third graders or something? It's just a fucking spider!"

"Will you kill it?" Ken asked, his voice holding a tentative, hopeful tone.

"Me?" Omi replied. The boy shook his head, "Huh uh … don't get me involved with that thing." He leaned to one side, using the table for leverage to keep from falling, and took a good, long look at the spider. "It's hairy … and creepy-looking. Plus, I think it's watching us."

"Well, sure it is," Yohji replied, "Spiders have, like, a bazillion eyes."

"A **_bazillion_**?" Omi challenged, his tone indicating disbelief of Yohji's statement.

The tall blonde refused to be daunted. He nodded, blew yet another stream of smoke at the creature holding down that little patch of their wall, and replied, in a confident, sure voice, "Yep. Bazillion. Saw it on TV … Discovery Channel … it's educational, you know."

Omi cocked his head to one side and regarded Yohji for a moment or two before asking, in a suspicious voice, "When did you ever watch Discovery Channel?"

Yohji shrugged and waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. "Other day. You know, that channel isn't what I expected."

"You thought it was porn, didn't you?!" Omi exclaimed, letting go of the table to point at Yohji. He almost lost his balance.

Yohji shrugged. "With a name like that? Of course I did. Who wouldn't?"

Omi shook his head and turned his attention back to the guide book. "I thought we could do something fun this weekend … you know … all together, since we don't have a mission and the shop's closed."

Aya saw Yohji and Ken tear their attention from the spider long enough to give each other a knowing look --- the look that passes between people who have been dragged off to one fun activity too many and have made a pact never to let it happen again. Aya recognized this look because he had the same one pasted on his face, although none of the others had noticed his presence.

"Stop giving each other that look," Omi snapped, without even turning around. "It'll be fun. I was thinking we could, maybe, go horseback riding. There's a place near downtown. It's kinda new, but a few of the girls who come into the shop said it was fun. It's even listed here in the guide book."

Aya decided it was time to make his presence known, before Ken and Yohji agreed to a day of enforced fun from the dizzying heights of horseback. He shifted his weight and cleared his throat before saying, "No horses."

All three of his teammates jumped at the sound of his voice. Yohji gave the redhead a little wave of greeting before turning his attention back to the spider. Ken glanced at Aya but, likewise, quickly riveted his eyes back on his canny arachnid foe. Omi looked up from the guide book, and smiled, a warm, genuine smile of greeting. Aya was surprised to realize Omi was truly happy to see him. He didn't know why. The kid was always happy to see any of them, but, still, it surprised him. Maybe because he never expected anyone to be happy to see him.

"Oh, Aya," Omi said, still smiling. "I didn't see you there. Been standing there long?"

Aya shook his head. "No … not long," he lied, although there was a ghost of a smile on his lips, which he was certain told Omi he'd seen most of Ken and Yohji's spider act.

If the kid didn't believe him, he didn't give any sign of it. "I was just thinking we could do something fun this weekend …" Omi started to say.

"No … horses," Aya cut him off. He felt a little bad about it, as Omi looked disappointed, but he had to draw the line. A man had to take a stand on some things, and, in Aya's opinion, horses were one of them.

Yohji looked away from the spider and gave Aya a teasing, playful grin, "Why? You scared of a little horsey?" When Ken laughed, Yohji glared at him and snapped, "Shut up, spider-boy."

"No," Aya said, cringing at how defensive his voice sounded, "I'm not scared of them. It's just … not … well, safe. They're huge, and have teeth … and their feet are really … well, big." He blushed as the words tumbled out of his mouth with a life of their own. It wasn't the speech he had prepared or the imposing, forbidding manner he would have preferred to project, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances.

"What," Yohji asked, never taking his attention from the spider, "Do you have there?" He waved his hand in Aya's general direction, as if that would give emphasis or explanation to his question.

Aya frowned, puzzled. After a moment or two, he answered, "A sword?"

"Right," Yohji replied. "You play with a sword, you're an assassin … but you're afraid of horses?"

Aya blushed and twisted his mouth into an irritated grimace, "It's not the same thing. Besides, swords don't kill people …"

"I know, I know," Yohji said, cutting him off in mid sentence and waving his hand behind his head in a dismissive manner, his attention still riveted on the arachnid, which had resumed its slow, cautious creep up the wall toward the ceiling, an air-conditioning vent, and, hopefully, freedom from its unwanted audience. It stopped when the tall blonde blew another stream of smoke at it. "Swords don't kill people … you kill people," he continued once he had halted the advance of his malevolent and particularly cunning foe, "Heard it all before. But … horses don't kill people, either."

Aya frowned at the triumphant tone in Yohji's voice. If he backed down now, he'd never hear the end of it from that blonde idiot. He had to see this argument through, no matter how stupid and childish it made him sound. "No," he agreed, "Horses don't kill people … falling off does. They're not small and manageable … like, say, a **_spider_**." He emphasized the word "spider" to drive home the point that he knew Yohji was afraid of that spider, just as much as the rest of them were. They all knew it, and he wanted the tall blonde to know they knew it.

"It's Ken's spider," Yohji muttered in response, but Aya was satisfied to see a slight, embarrassed blush creep across the older man's face.

"It is not!" Ken hissed, careful to avoid spitting on their arachnid companion this time. "Stop saying that!" He turned his attention toward Aya long enough to challenge, "If you're so brave and mighty, you come over here and kill it."

Aya gave Ken a narrow-eyed glare, but the ex-goalie noted, with an air of satisfaction, he didn't make any move toward spider ground zero. The brunette turned back toward the spider with a triumphant smirk, an unspoken_ "right … thought so" _that made Aya's skin crawl and his teeth itch. But, he refused to give Ken the satisfaction of arguing with him. Yohji was one thing. He could stand acting childish and arguing with Yohji, but to do so with Ken was unthinkable.

Instead, Aya pretended he hadn't even heard the ex-goalie's challenge. He ignored Ken and said, "Yohji, I need to get back into shape. Kritiker's going to put us back in the field soon, and I need to be ready. I thought we could spar."

Omi glanced up from his guide book and gave Aya a questioning look, but the boy was smart enough to keep his thoughts to himself. Still, Aya could see them written in Omi's eyes and the expression on his face, and he had to admit it grated on his nerves. He glared at the kid until Omi, wisely, looked back down at the open book.

Yohji turned away from the spider, momentarily forgetting about the creature, and gave Aya a long, searching look. He ran a practiced eye up and down the redhead's body, calculating the injuries Aya had suffered in his last foray: the fractured skull, the injuries to his face, the multiple lacerations and contusions on his torso, the broken collarbone, the fractured ribs, not to mention the internal damage. It had been a couple of months since then, but those kinds of things didn't go away overnight. Normally, he would have jumped at the chance to spar with Aya. Testing his skill with the wire against the redhead's blade was a huge treat, but, now, he was afraid of Aya pushing his body too far too soon. Sure, the redhead was healing, but Yohji knew he was still in a lot of pain. It would be too easy to re-inflict some of the most serious injuries. After several seconds, Aya began to squirm under Yohji's scrutiny. He never had liked people staring at him.

Finally, the tall blonde shook his head and said, "Nah. Don't think so. You still look like crap, and you shouldn't be doing anything with that sword --- other than polishing it, maybe. Even if we get a mission, you're not going."

"Oh, shit! It's moving! It's moving!" Ken yelled, making Yohji jump and focusing the older man's attention back onto the spider, which had begun to skitter, at breakneck speed, up the wall --- an obvious, desperate, last bid for freedom.

Omi was the only one who wasn't focused on the spider, so he was the only one who saw the way Aya's mouth pulled itself into a grim, determined, straight line, the way the redhead's lips went white, and the way his eyes glittered with anger. The younger blonde swallowed and, silently, exited his chair, moving off to the side just as Aya reached into a nearby drawer and retrieved a paring knife. He hefted it in his hand for a moment, flipping it from blade to handle, and then, back to blade. It wasn't very well balanced, and it wasn't very sharp, but he supposed it would do. In one lightening-quick, fluid motion, he threw the knife toward the spider, which was racing up the wall under the watchful gaze of his teammates, just inches from their heads.

The knife split the air with an almost poetic, aerodynamic ease, making only the smallest humming sound as it passed. It sliced cleanly between Yohji and Ken, causing them to jump backward in shock, although Aya was maliciously happy to see it took a good chunk of Ken's hair with it and prompted an "eep" from the ex-goalie. It struck the spider dead center with enough force to embed the blade a good couple of inches into the door jamb, the knife handle vibrating and humming from the force of its impact.

A heavy, tense silence descended on the kitchen, rolling into every corner of the room and blanketing the small space like a thick roll of cotton batting, while Yohji stared at Aya. After a few seconds, the tall blonde ran his hands through his hair, pulling it loose from its low ponytail, and pushed his sunglasses up on his nose. He leaned forward and poked at the knife with his index finger, flicking it with enough force to set the handle vibrating once more. He frowned at the kitchen utensil, clearly lost in deep thought. Sighing, he gathered his hair back from his face and, once again, fastened it in the elastic tie before turning to face Aya.

"Maybe you're not as sick as I thought," he commented, sending a meaningful, sideways glance at the knife embedded in the wall a few inches from his head. "OK … I'll spar with you. I just have to go upstairs and get my …" The clink of something metallic flying toward him cut Yohji off mid-sentence. He plucked the object Aya had tossed out of the air and glanced at it as he finished, "wire."

Without another word, he crossed the kitchen and shouldered past Aya to precede the redhead up the stairs and to the roof. Aya turned to watch Yohji's exit just in time to see him wave his hand in response to Omi's warning of "Don't hit him in the head!"

The redhead turned back toward Omi and gave the boy a meaningful glare. "No. Horses," he said, before turning on his heel and following Yohji.

Omi sighed. "Well," he said, "I suppose we could go to the amusement park again. What do you think, Ken?" He turned around to regard his friend when Ken failed to answer. "Ken?" he prompted.

The ex-goalie was still staring at the knife embedded in the wall and the sizable chunk of brown hair speared on its end, along with the deceased spider. He reached out and placed his forefinger against the handle's tip, to stop the blade from vibrating, and then looked at Omi with wide, surprised eyes. The young blonde took one look at the startled expression on Ken's face and laughed. He knew the brunette had, somehow, made his peace with Aya and come to accept the stubborn, quiet redhead as a true member of Weiss. But, it looked like Ken was having second thoughts at the moment, judging from the way he stared at that knife.

"Remind me again why we're happy to have him back?" Ken asked.


End file.
